Oxymoron
by whatifellinlovewith
Summary: AU: Castle is the fun English teacher. Beckett is the strict English teacher. All their students ship them together. (And they may ship themselves together, too). Castle Ficathon 2015 Entry.
1. Chapter 1

_**oxymoron**_

* * *

 _oxymoron:_ (noun) a figure of speech in which apparently contradictory terms appear in conjunction

* * *

She fixes her bun in the small mirror on her filing cabinet, adjusts her jacket on her shoulders and her slacks on her hips, kicking her feet lighting so the pant legs are loose around her ankles, flutter around the straps of her shoes. After sitting at her desk for an hour, her toes are still a little tingly and her eyes burn just enough to be irritating, her head still aching from her two morning classes.

But the afternoon class, as much as she doesn't want to do it, isn't optional.

The bell rings, announcing the end of the third course, and the hallway outside her classroom is instantly flooded with students. Bickering, gossiping, flirting. A few stop by their lockers, the clinks and clanks of metal on metal echoing through the halls, all around the school's third floor. Others groan and grumble and _whine_ about how heavy their binders or backpacks are, carrying them from room to room, floor to floor, day after day.

The first student that arrives in her classroom is a quiet girl named Jordan. She has pitch black hair that's always loose over her shoulders, two binders balanced in her arms. She walks silently from the door to the desk way in the back corner of the room, the one she claimed the very first day of classes and hasn't given up since.

After that, the room starts to fill with students. Almost all of them arrive in pairs or groups, chit chatting as they roll their eyes at any mention of class, each sliding into their chair. She lingers awkwardly by the door as she waits for the classroom to fill, waiting for the second bell to ring, the one that announces the official beginning of fourth period.

The students groan in unison, as though they were all expecting today to be the day it wouldn't ring. They day they would be allowed to spend the last hour of school sitting around talking.

Well, sucks to be them, because she has an English class to teach.

"Hello, class," she greets. Her smile is forced, her head pounding as she closes her fingers around a pile of heavy books, the pages laced with short stories, that all the students hate. She hands them to the boy, Jared, that sits at the front of the classroom, at the desk nearest the door. "Pass these back," she tells him. She repeats the process with the other four rows of students, smiling halfheartedly as they obey. "Today," she speaks again, "we will be starting a new project. But first, I want you guys all to open your books to page twenty-seven."

She reads the story out loud, not having the patience to deal with having the students read. It's the story of a teenager living in the big city, having been dragged into the gang. He's dying, the boy named Andy. He was stabbed and left to die in a dark alley. Just because he was there, at the wrong place, at the wrong time, wearing the wrong jacket.

She hates that story, _On the Sidewalk Bleeding_ by Evan Hunter. Not because the story is _bad_ , per say, but just…

She just doesn't like it.

She sets the book down on her desk. "So, guys, what did you think of the story?" she asks the students, once again forcing that _stupid_ smile that is supposed to make her a better teacher or something.

It doesn't seem to help much, though, since all she gets in response is a few synchronized shrugs from some of her students, uninterested yawns feebly hidden behind hands and a few blank stares.

She sighs. "Guys, if you don't participate in class, I will have no choice but to make you do the seven questions that accompany the story, and neither one of us wants that, so _please_ just participate?" She brings her hand up, rubs two fingers against her skull, trying to rub away the migraine.

Finally, a hand shoots up. A girl named Sarah smiling shyly as she glances around the class. She's one of those really smart students who doesn't want anyone to know she's really smart.

"Yes, Sarah?"

Her hand falls back to her desk. "I thought it was very sad, Ms. Beckett," she says. "Andy didn't get to say goodbye to anyone, didn't get to make amends. He just died, and for nothing. Just because of his jacket? It's horrible."

She has to suck in a deep breath to keep herself steady. "Yeah, it is," she agrees, though there's so much more she wants to say. So many words that she finds the short story puts inadequately. So many things she understands that she feels this author does not.

And _fuck_ , why can't the school just find a different story about self discovery?

She takes another breath and turns back to her students. "Any other thoughts about _On the Sidewalk Bleeding?_ " she asks, dragging her finger across the book's glossy page.

She gets a few more answers. A boy named Raiden comments on the part of the story where Andy finally gets his jacket off. A girl named Steph focussing her answer on the two cops at the end who dismiss the murder because Andy was a member of the local gangs. A boy named Preston who rudely interrupts her.

"Well, he kinda deserved it, don't you think?" he asks. "He's the one who joined the gang. He knew the risk of what he was doing. Who cares? A bunch of people die every day. I bet they don't all get nice cops to find their killer. It's not a _TV show,_ Steph." His words are harsh and they hit too close to home.

She wants to shout, wants to tell Preston that he's right. That not all murder victims get good cops who try _so_ hard to find the killer like they do on TV. She wants to tell Steph she's right, that _nobody_ deserves to have their death just dismissed like that. She wants to march down to the principal's office and tell him she's never going to read the story again, if she has it her way. She's not really sure what she wants to do first.

But the last thing he wants to do is hear the teacher in the room next to hers start laughing.

And yet that's exactly what she _does_ get.

* * *

The children smile and laugh with him, leaning over their books, willing participants in his class. A boy named Brandon is playfully nudging the guy next to him, Kyle, in reaction to what he just answered.

"Yeah, Brandon, he probably could have found himself a cooler jacket that _wouldn't_ have gotten him killed. You're right about that. But are there any _other_ ways he could have avoided getting killed? You know, besides wearing a different outfit?" he asks the classroom full of students.

A girl in the middle of the class named Hannah raises her hand this time, having her nails, painted pink, in the air. He points to her, snapping his fingers and she smiles. "He could have just not joined the gang in the first place," she suggests, shrugging one shoulder gently.

"Also true, but I'm talking less… more in the present. The day he got killed, is there anything Andy could have done to prevent it?" he asks. He sees Brandon's hand shoot up again and shoots him a look. "Besides choosing a different outfit that morning," he adds, smiling as Brandon sinks back into his seat.

The class is silent for a while, all of them staring at him as though they expect him to give them the answer. He's sure they know by now, though, that even though he _is_ the cool teacher, he doesn't just _give up_ the answers. Not without them trying first. He still has to be a _teacher,_ after all.

Finally, a girl named Hayley raises her hand. He smiles and points to her, snapping his fingers again, and she smiles back at him. "I think, Mr. Castle, that it was too late for Andy by the time the day he got stabbed came. That the only thing he could have done to have truly avoided being killed like that was to have not joined the gang in the first place. Or, I guess he could have left the gang a little sooner. That would probably have worked, too."

He smiles at her, pushes himself up from where he's sitting on his desk to stand in front of his class. "That, Hayley, would be correct. Andy was killed solely because he was in the gang the _Royals._ So, the best way to avoid being killed would be to avoid getting into the gang. This would make Andy joining the gang the beginning of the…"

He points to a random student and, used to this technique, the teen picks up immediately.

"Rising action."

He smiles. "That's right," he confirms. "The rising action would consist of everything that happened from when Andy joined the _Royals_ , which we don't actually see in the story _On the Sidewalk Bleeding_ , to the climax. That could include any number of things that we don't know about. And the climax comes, which is…"

He points to another student, who immediately answers: "When Andy gets shot."

He snaps his fingers on both hands. "Yes!" he says, smiling at his class. "And then we have the denouement, which is everything that we do get to read in _On the Sidewalk Bleeding_." He walks over to his desk, flips the cover of the book shut to tell his students they're done with the story and leans forward, hands pressed against the hard surface of his desk. "And that, dear students, is the story of Andy's death."

He swipes a pile of papers out from beneath his hands and balances them in his arm. He hands them out, one to each student. He makes sure they're all upside down so the students can't see quite yet, walking around the class until he has one paper remaining, his, held easily between his fingers.

"Okay, class, today we are beginning a new project," he tells them, waving the paper in the air playfully before holding it against his stomach again. "We've spent a lot of time in this class talking about people's stories. Their stories of life, self-discovery, and even death, like Andy's. But now, I want to get to know you guys and your story." He smiles. "Hence, the _All That I Am_ project."

On cue, each student turns the paper on their desks over, scans the paper of instructions quickly and looks back up at him for further explanation.

* * *

"The _All That I Am_ project consists of four parts," she explains, sitting behind her desk. "The first one is a visual representation of yourself and to write a half page explanation of why you think that represents you." She pushes herself up from her desk, grabs the black pen from the tray in front of the Smart Board and scribbles a few lines onto the white screen, a quick drawing to make her point. "Does anyone know what these are?"

One boy lets out a soft snort from the back of the room. "Chicken scratches."

"Hey," she says, pointing the boy, a jock named Derek. "This is not about my drawing skills. This is about the lesson, so unless you know what these are, Derek, you are not supposed to be talking. So, do you know what these are?"

He shrugs. "Some kind of ancient scale thing, like an old version of those things we used in like _second grade_ ," he answers with a shrug, wincing at her screen like he really cannot decipher what her drawing is.

She sighs, dropping the pen back into its tray. "Close enough," she mumbles. For herself, not for her students. And then she raises her voice so they can all hear. "These are the scales of justice. I think they represent me because I believe in justice. For example, I like to think that, if I had been in the place of the cops in the story _On the Sidewalk Bleeding,_ I would fight harder for Andy, to catch his killer."

It wells in her chest, the _stupid_ emotions that come with the _stupid_ memories and she's had a long day, so when a student pipes up with a "Maybe you should have become a cop instead of a teacher, then," she's all but ready to explode.

She doesn't though. Figures that would be a sure fire way to be disliked even more by her students. Instead, she points to him. "You. No speaking in class unless it is pertinent to the lesson," she tells him. He rolls his eyes, but sinks back into his chair a bit anyway. "Anyway, you make a visual representation of yourself, as simple or complicated as you want, and then, in half a page, you explain why you feel that represents you."

She walks away from the smart board, drops back into her seat. "Part 2: a poem," she says. She holds up the book of short stories they were just reading from. "You see four page numbers on your explanation sheet. These each indicate a page in the book." She jerks it slightly in her hand before dropping it back to her desk. "Each page has a poem on it. You will use these poems as examples for your own poem."

Sarah raises her hand. "Miss Beckett? If we have a different idea for the structure of our poem, can we use that instead? Or does it _have_ to be based on one of those four?" she asks.

She scowls. "Your poem will be based on the structure of one of these four," she repeats, pressing her palm against the book's cover. "Any other questions on the poetry part of this project?" Nobody answers, so she nods her head. "Good. Part C of the project is an anecdote. Does anyone know what an anecdote is?"

"Isn't it like, a story or something?" suggests a student named Brody.

"Raise your hand before you speak," she reminds him like she would a kindergartener, "but yes, an anecdote is a type of story. More specifically, it's a story about something that actually happened. For example: your first day of high school, your first kiss, the last time you broke up with someone. I don't care what story you tell, as long as it's real and about you. Your anecdote will be two pages long. No more. And no less than a page and a half. Got it?"

The students nod in unison, uninterested and bored.

She plasters on that stupid fake smile again. "Good," she says. "Now, for the fourth and final part, you will have to choose an object, place, person, animal, any tangible thing that is important to you. You will write a one page long explanation as to why the thing you chose is important to you."

A student named Camille raises her hand. "Can you give us an example, Miss Beckett? What's most important to you?" she asks.

Her mind flashes to the ring that's settled against her chest, hidden, as always, by her button-upped blouse. That's the _object_ that is most important to her. That and the watch strapped around her wrist. But she can't get into that, into the _why_ for either one.

"No," she tells the class, "it's simple enough for you guys to figure it out on your own." She slides back into the chair behind her desk, crosses her arms in front of her. Hopes her students can't read anything on her face. "You guys will spend the rest of the class brainstorming ideas. You have two weeks to finish this project, so you guys had better get to work."

It's most likely just because they're tired of listening to her talk. That much she knows. But she's _really_ glad that they don't argue and instead, all pull out their notebooks and pencils, scribbling down ideas, doodling. At this point, she doesn't care. Her head is pounding from a long day spent with ninth graders, her eyes burning from lack of sleep and she _really_ needs another cup of coffee. And for today to be over.

* * *

"So, who here wants to guess who or what is most important to me?" he asks the class, pen poised in his hand as he stands in front of the white Smart Board. He turns to smile at the students, sees a few hands poke up. He motions to a boy named Lucas who sits in the far corner of the room. "Yeah?"

"Your daughter?" he guesses. "Uh, Alexis."

He smiles, nodding his head slowly. "That would be the who," he confirms, writing Alexis' name down on the board with an easy, practiced few flicks of his wrist. "My daughter who has banned me from telling _any_ stories about her in my class because _apparently_ having the ninth graders know about your childhood is _embarrassing_."

A few students laugh. Others nod knowingly.

"How about the what? Anyone want to try and guess that?" he asks. "I promise, this one is _much_ harder." He grins, pressing the pen against the white of the board again.

A few students raise their hands. The first one guesses his computer, but that's not it. The second guesses his first book, which is also not it. The third, one of the main jokesters in the class, guesses his divorce papers. He laughs, of course, but is quick to tell the student no, that it's something else.

"Come on, Mr. Castle. What else could be all that important to you?" calls out a student from the back of the room.

He smiles, takes a step away from the Smart Board. "Well, class, this one is part of _my_ story, and probably not what you would expect to be one of the most important things to me," he tells them. He walks back over to the board at the front of the class and presses the tip of the pen against the little black dot he made earlier, scribbling down the words before stepping away so the class can see.

"Your first rejection letter? But, why?" calls a student, and he turns to the class and smiles.

"You'll have to wait and see for when I tell you the answers to my _All That I Am_ project," he promises. "But the point of this," he motions to the board behind him, "was to show you how you could begin your brainstorm for step four. Choose a person and a thing that are very important to you. Write down all the reasons you can think of as to _why_ they are important to you and then choose the one you feel you can justify best."

His class smiles and nods, each student pulling out a notebook and beginning what he hopes is their brainstorm. He waits for a second before heading over to take a seat at his computer, pulling up the manuscript for his attempt at writing another Derrick Storm book. It's not going so well, he reminded himself once more, as he stares at the blank document _again._

He spends a good twenty minutes staring at it, testing introductory sentences on the keyboard only to delete them again. Occasionally, a student comes over to ask him if they're doing the project right, and he's thankful for the distraction. It draws his mind away from a snappy Gina reminding him that if he doesn't get the first few chapters for another book in soon, they'll drop him and from Alexis constantly telling him that maybe he just needs a new story to tell.

By the time the bell rings, he's staring at a still blank, white document. He happily pushes himself up from his seat and goes to stand by the door like he usually does. The students are gathering their binders, piling them into their arms or stuffing their homework into their backpacks, a few pulling their cellphones out of their pockets to quickly check their texts.

The first student appears by his side. "You get any work done today?" he asks. The student nods, so he holds his hand and gets a quick high-five before the teen heads for the hall, getting lost in the crowd of students that fill them.

He trails behind the final student before making his way into the hall. Hands in his pockets, he rocks back and forth on his feet as he watches the clusters of students dissipate, the teens lining the walls and they stuff binders into their lockers and pull their jackets out, groaning about homework or chatting with their friends, a few of them holding hands, ready to leave together.

Ms. Beckett appears next to him, arms crossed over her chest. "Don't they know that there's not supposed to be any PDA on school property?" she asks, most likely to herself.

He answers anyway. "Probably. I remember being a teenager, though. Rules aren't usually the first thing on your mind," he says, shrugging as he watches one couple who looks to be Alexis' age share a quick peck goodbye. "Although I bet you were the poster child of good behavior," he adds.

He feels her glare before he turns to look at her, finds her shooting daggers at him with her eyes when he does.

"What?" he asks innocently.

She lets out an exasperated sigh. "I don't have the patience to deal with you right now," she says before turning around and all but slamming the door behind her.

He smiles, turns to face the window in her door. "You're cute when you're angry," he calls.

The glare she shoots him this time is downright adorable.

* * *

 **Well, it's a little late to start, but hey, I actually have my ficathon project up and being written. I hope you enjoyed.**

 **The prompt that inspired this story was posted on the _castlefanficprompts_ blog forever ago, and then Alex posted it on the main _castlefanfics_ blog, also forever ago, but I finally got to filling it. Prompt: **_**Castle is the fun "cool" English teacher all the students love. Beckett, in contrast, is a strict teacher. But all the kids ship them together. (Maybe, middle school or high schoolers).**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**oxymoron**_

* * *

 _oxymoron:_ (noun) a figure of speech in which apparently contradictory terms appear in conjunction

* * *

There's something about school assemblies that drive her crazy. Which is stupid, really, because she knows she's one of the teachers who's a big stickler for the rules. And these assemblies are like seventy-five percent about the rules. And she knows she probably annoys her students just as much as these stupid assemblies annoy her. But, really, the assemblies _are_ stupid and they _do_ drive her crazy and there's nothing that will change that.

The school's principal is a charismatic man who has a way with being in front of crowds. He has a bald head and a slightly plump face, a graying mustache across his upper-lip. He always wears well tailored suits that she imagines, based on the cost of her own jackets, cost a fortune. While he speaks, he walks back and forth across the wide stage of the school's huge auditorium, addressing himself to one group of the student body and then to another.

The student body president also sits on stage, along with the four representatives for the grade—since the assemblies are done for times every day, once for each grade. They're the kind of students that look like they belong to a school with uniforms even though they don't. The kind that wear sweatervests because they like them and blouses because they make them look more mature.

They're the exact opposite of what she was as a teenager, that's for sure.

She feels a sigh fill her chest, and then escape it through her nose, an angry, annoyed sigh that has her running her fingers through her loose hair and digging the heel of her shoe into the auditorium's carpeted floor. Her shoulder blades press against one of the wide columns that dot the room and she tries to swallow back a yawn at the speech they're all getting for the third time this year.

When it comes to these things, she had the same attention span as her students, which is to say, none.

She waits a few more seconds before slipping out of one of the auditorium's many doors, making her way to the girls' bathroom just down the hall. It's blissfully silent in the middle of class, and she takes the moment she can spare to lean against the counter in the room, to splash some of the ice cold water across her face. Her first course students are the most rambunctious of her day, the only class she teaches that isn't an advanced course and she almost always watches them leave with a headache.

Not having to spend an hour in class watching them is perhaps the only good thing out of the damn assemblies.

She lets herself yawn before leaving the room, walking down the hall and back to the auditorium. She easily finds her spot next to the column, leans against it again. The principal is still talking, rambling about the rule concerning coarse language that no teenager will ever follow, especially not because a so-called old man told them that their vocabulary was _crass_. She rolls her eyes, the action concealed by the darkness of the room.

She's settled for tuning out the principal and running over her lesson plan for next course when she feels a nudge against her shoulder. Not that _you were falling asleep and I wanted to wake you_ kind of nudge, but the _I don't want to talk and really want your attention_ kind. Not that that makes anything better. She really hates both kinds.

And yet it's not like she can _ignore_ the person stubbornly pressing his shoulder against hers, so she slides her gaze towards him. Curses internally when she sees who it is.

"What do you want?" she asks in a hushed whisper, careful not to disturb the silence that surrounds the bored students of the principal's speech.

His grin is that stupidly charming _I know I'm annoying you and I really like it_ kind that she always wants to wipe off his face one way or another. "Just wanted to let you know that a few of your students were talking and I made sure they were quiet. Considering your such a, you know, stickler for the rules, I figured you wouldn't want your students talking during the assembly." He shrugs, and his shoulder brushes hers again.

She takes a step away from him, tempted to tell him that she doesn't give a crap about the assembly. That the students obviously don't listen _anyway._ But she also doesn't want to give him the satisfaction of…however that would satisfy him. So she turns away from him, stares at the principal when she answers curtly.

"Thank you. I'm sure Principal Montgomery would appreciate it."

She expects him to leave. Well, not really. More like _hopes_ he'll leave her alone and go find somewhere else to stand to watch his own class instead of hers. Except he doesn't leave. Doesn't add an inch of space between them. And she's about to ask him why he's still next to her when she remembers, _fuck,_ that his class sits right next to hers.

So he has the perfect goddamn excuse for staying close, even though he _wasn't_ this close before.

He eyes slide closed and she drops her head against the column again, ignoring his playful nudge and whisper of " _Pay attention, Ms. Beckett,_ " in exchange for Principal Montgomery's long, boring, redundant speech.

It's not good. But it's better. But still…

She _really_ hates these assemblies.

* * *

Fourth period comes slower than it usually does. Maybe it's the assembly, and the lack of actual _teaching_ that came with the first period. And then the whining that came with his second period because " _Your first class didn't have to do work today, Mr. Castle._ " And then his stupid preparation period and the fact that he already had the lesson plans for the next week and a half done. Which left him staring at that God-forsaken blank document for an hour before the bell for fourth period finally, _finally_ rang.

Or maybe it's the memory of her clipped voice and angry glares that have been haunting him since this morning.

No. It's definitely not that. It has to be that progress-less book.

But it's not.

He sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, squeezing his eyes shut to get rid of the blooming headache he can feel behind them, to eliminate the pressure before it bubbles into something that requires pain pills and a day without writing to soothe.

Then again, a day without writing sounds pretty good.

"You okay, Mr Castle?" he hears suddenly, and he looks up to find Lucas standing there, fingers holding tightly onto the straps of his backpack. "Do you have a headache? It could be all that time you spend on your computer. Artificial light is known to cause migraines."

He smiles. "No, Lucas, I'm fine," he dismisses. "Why don't you go sit down? Class will begin soon."

Lucas nods and heads for his seat in the far corner of the room, drops his bag onto the tiled floor and quickly tugs the zippers open only to pull out his big English binder and set it on his desk. He watches from where he stands near the door as Lucas grabs a pencil from his pencil case and starts writing on a piece of paper. He's a good student, always a step ahead of everyone, including _him_.

He swallows back a second sigh and turns away from the door as the second bell rings, his hand gently pushing it shut. He makes his way to the front of the room, in front of the students, between them and his messy desk. His palms find the only areas of actually flat, _bare_ surface and he uses them to support his body as he leans back and settles against the desk's edge.

"How about we start today off with a story, considering that's what I did with the other two classes?" he asks the students, smiling at their smiles and nods. "Okay, then, let me think of a story that's, uh, _appropriate_ to tell you guys." A few of the students chuckle, oblivious to the fact that, really, there's many stories he could tell that would _definitely_ get him in trouble with Principal Montgomery. Or their parents. Or both.

Like the story about the police horse. _That's_ a good one. It's also an inappropriate one.

"Okay," he repeats, to gain the teens' attention, "I was at the book launch party for the last Derrick Storm novel when somebody taps on my shoulder. Of course, I automatically think it's a fan who wants my autograph. So what do I do? I turn around and ask the woman: "Where would you like it?" You know what she does? She holds up a badge and tells me that she's a detective for the NYPD and wants to question me about a murder that took place earlier that day."

He pushes himself up off his desk and smiles. "I followed her, of course. She was a cop. And she was _hot_ ," he tells his class, watching as some students roll their eyes, others grinning at nodding. "She interrogated me. I would tell you guys all about that, but, lets just say it's not all that appropriate for the classroom. Some of the, uh, conversation, I mean. All you guys need to know is that I was a person of interest in her case because their killer was mirroring crime scenes from _my_ books. Isn't that cool?"

The handful of snickers from students make him smile. And he realizes his headache is fading.

"I managed to convince that hot detective to let me help. You know, something had happened to her. In her past. Well, not _to_ her, but to someone she loved. I found that out while we were going through my fan mail— _yes_ , I get fan mail. Anyway, she wouldn't tell me what. But she was wounded."

He can picture it in his head. A tall woman with chiseled features, wearing a more...masculine suit but stiletto heels that could easily be turned into weapons. Long, curly hair that was always pulled back and a glare that could kill, an eyeroll that spoke volumes. He shakes his head to eliminate the picture when a student not-so-subtly clears her throat.

"Right," he says. "Anyway, we were going through my fan mail when we finally found a clue. I used my many connections to get them the lab work they needed as soon as possible. She wasn't very…happy with that, but her team was impressed. Sadly, before we can catch the killer, our next leave comes in the form of a third body, once again mirroring a crime scene from one of my books.

We're examining the crime scene when the lab work comes back. Turns out, there was a print that they matched to a Brooklyn resident named Kyle Cabot. We went over to his place. Despite the detective's orders, I went in, too. He was _obsessed_ with me, and they arrest him for the three murders. He wasn't our killer, though."

"How did you know?"

He smiles. "Well, you see, at every crime scene there was an inconsistency, a detail that varied from the actual scene in my book," he explains. "Somebody who was _obsessed_ with me would never make those mistakes. So I sneak into the precinct, get in a kiss to her cheek, and leave. Taking with me the pictures of their crime scenes.

She arrests me, of course, but I must get to her, as I continue investigating, we end up crossing paths at the second victim's father's office. We question him together, and somehow she misses that he has cancer. I tell her, of course. Anything to help enforce the law, right?" He grins. "That leads us to our real killer."

He leans back against his desk again. "It was the second victim's brother. He killed her so he could get all of his father's money when he died. We caught him destroying the evidence, managed to prove he had a second, illegal passport and arrested him for the three murders." He smiles at his class again, forgets the crime and once again imagines the hot detective with an intriguing past. "I asked her out, told her it would be great. She said no, told me I had no idea how great it would be. I didn't. I still don't. I never saw her again."

"What was the detective like, Mr. Castle?" asks Brandon.

So he tells the class all about the mental image he created. Long hair pulled back. Suit and stilettos. Jaded, wounded, but strong. Unable to keep the smile that crosses his face at bay.

Jess, one of the students sitting in the middle of the room, raises her hand, and he nods at her so she'll speak.

She smiles that mischievous smile that only teenagers are truly capable of. "You know, Mr. Castle, that detective you described sounds like Ms. Beckett."

He can do nothing but stare at her, and then force a laugh and then turn to the chalkboard and scribbled down the name of today's lesson, perhaps the easiest, least conspicuous way to change the subject.

Because, yes, the detective _was_ fictional.

But no, she has nothing to do with Ms. Beckett from next door.

Absolutely nothing.

* * *

She closes the door once the last of the students disappear from the hallway, a bag slung over his shoulder, careful not to slam it. And then she walks over to her desk and all but collapses into her chair, fingers curling around the blue mug that sits by her keyboard.

It's cold and empty and _fuck_ she has a pile a foot high of evaluations to correct for _each class_ and there is no way she's getting any of it done without caffeine. Nothing. Nada.

She sighs into the empty classroom, stares at the base of her dark cup as though that will somehow make the silky golden liquid of her usual coffee appear within it. As stupid as that is. As much as she _knows_ she's going to have to get up and walk all the way across the school just to refill her cup.

And socialize with some of the other members of the language department. Maybe. Hopefully not.

She pushes herself out of her chair, mug still in hand, and easily slips from the quiet room into the equally eerie halls. The lockers are all closed, the only signs of life being the teachers working in their classrooms, the few students lingering by the school's front doors, waiting for their rides home.

The clicks of her heels, which she usually revels in, echoes off the walls a little too loudly. Her fingers curl tightly around the cup, pressing it against her stomach, the handle digging into the bone of her sternum.

The door has a small window in it, a long vertical one that gives her a clear view of the room. Of Ryan, the English teacher who doubles as a religion teacher, Esposito, the Spanish teacher, and of _him._ A view clear enough to make her want to turn on her heel and sneak into the science ward and get her coffee there, where, worst comes to worst, she has to talk about her nonexistent love life with Lanie.

But he sees her before she can leave. _He_ sees her and flashes that infuriating smile that he always has at the end of the day and motions for her to come in with an easy flick of his hand. And now she _can't_ leave. Not without making it obvious she's avoiding them. Or, well, him.

She loosens her grip on her empty mug and slowly pulls the door open, letting it fall shut behind her as she easily makes her way to the espresso machine—perhaps the only advantage of having a millionaire teach in your department.

"Hey, Beckett," he greets.

She keeps her eyes locked intently on the coffee machine in front of her. "Hi, Mr. Castle. Ryan. Esposito."

She gets twin greetings from Ryan and Espo, a chuckle from Castle.

"You can drop the _Mister_ , Beckett. You're not one of my students," he says, and though she's still staring at the coffee machine, she's fairly certain he's grinning. Definitely smug. "In fact, you can call me whatever you want. Castle. Rick is good, too, if you're comfortable with that."

She frowns, hiding it behind a sip from her coffee cup. "Okay, Castle," she mumbles.

"Oh, good. We're making progress," he says. She hears the screeching of a chair's metal legs against the tile and winces. "Now, come on, Beckett, sit down. Talk."

She scowls. "I have papers to correct, Castle. The wide reading project won't correct itself."

He winces. "I know, right? That project is so _long_ ," he whines, sounding too much like one of her students for her taste. "Every level is like _eight pages_ long. I'm surprised some of my students even bothered with the first one."

She shrugs. "I have a few who didn't do anything," she tells him. "The _F_ they'll be getting will be completely their fault. All it means to me is that I have more free time."

"Oh? And what do you do with this free time, Beckett?" he asks. A grin comes across his face. "Hot boyfriend waiting at home? Or are you married? You know, it's kind of sad how little I know about you even though we spend like eight hours a day with only a wall between us."

 _Thank God for that wall_.

"I mean, you could have a kid for all I know. Or live with your mom. Or be a criminal. We should really get to know each other better."

She frowns. "Why? It's not like we're friends or anything."

He smiles up at her, eyes sparkling with something that's…not mischief. It almost scares her.

"But we could be."

She feels herself gaping at him. Feels her mind screaming at her that being _friends_ with Richard Castle is in no way plausible, _possible._

"I really have to correct the wide reading project," she says, and then she turns on her heel and leaves the room, her cup of coffee in hand.

* * *

He watches her walk away, the ever so slight, unintentional sway of her hips and the tenseness in the muscles of her back. He listens to the clicking of her shoes until it fades, inaudible, and then he follows. Leaving a respectful distance between them, of course, so she doesn't accuse him of anything.

He does have the perfect excuse, though. His classroom _is_ right next to hers. And as much as he hates to admit it, he also has some work to correct before he leaves for the night.

She disappears under the threshold of her classroom, fingers curling around it for the briefest of moments. Her shoulders loosen, that much he can tell even through her blazer. And he could _swear_ he hears her sigh it what sounds too much like relief for his taste.

When he walks by her door, only about halfway open, she's sitting at her computer, head buried in her palms, weight resting on her elbows. Her fingers are tracing the lines of her eyebrows, stretching the skin. Her legs are crossed under the desk, one bouncing like she's anxious. Nervous.

And then she mumbles something. Almost inaudible and not at all meant for his ears.

"I knew I should have stayed in law school."

His jaw all but hits the ground and he has to swallow back any noise of surprise, any questions that threaten to come out at the newfound information. She looks back up at her computer screen then, and he darts into his classroom, closing the door behind him, and, like an idiot, stares at the wall between them for at least a minute or two.

 _Law school._

But he knows that's not what she majored in, knows she doesn't have a law or pre-law degree, because the school is elite. And you _need_ an English degree to teach English. Which means she has one. Not a law degree.

But she would make an excellent lawyer. Buttoned-up. To the point. Argumentative. Convincing. _Hot_.

He shakes his head and looks away from the white brick wall he was staring at, turning back to his computer, dropping into his chair and pulling up the last of his wide reading projects to correct. He does it quickly, the work rather mediocre and not meeting the length requirements, and leaves it with a B- before opening up his own word document.

It's not so much a story that comes to him this time, not words to create an exposition or, well, any part of a novel. But a person. A character with no name that he labels as KB, for now. If anyone asks, he'll tell them it's after his ex-girlfriend.

But it's not her that he's thinking about when he scribbled down a few traits.

* * *

 _KB:  
_ _\- buttoned-up  
_ _\- to the point  
_ _\- argumentative  
_ _\- obedient  
_ _\- strict  
_ _\- real  
_ _\- hot  
_ … _Something happened._

* * *

 **Oops. I totally meant to post this like a week ago. But, uh, yeah. Hope it was worth the wait.**


	3. Chapter 3

_**oxymoron**_

* * *

 _oxymoron:_ (noun) a figure of speech in which apparently contradictory terms appear in conjunction

* * *

She feels him watching her in the student's lounge during their morning meeting, his infuriating blue eyes practically burning a hole in the side of her head. She tries not to focus on it. She _really_ does. Tries to listen to Montgomery and focus on his words, no matter how worn out the speech is.

"We are a school, a very prestigious school at that," says Montgomery for what must be the twentieth time since she started here a few years ago. "Our goal is to teach these students not only facts, but how to live their lives like upstanding citizens of this country, of this world. That is the battle. That is the closest thing we get to victory."

She nods her head along with everyone else, fighting the urge to yawn, and instead taking a small, polite sip of her coffee, rolling her ankle under the conference table. Boring is perhaps the only word to describe these triannual meetings they have, especially when they get to this point, in which the teachers with more seniority and Montgomery start talking and everyone of her generation splits into groups.

She's never really been part of a group.

Until today, she supposes, because a hand is suddenly reaching over her shoulder and fingers—definitely a _man's_ fingers—close around her white coffee cup. She looks up, curious, and then chastises herself for even wondering who it was because, of course, it's _him._

"What are you doing, Castle?" she asks.

"Gee, Beckett, don't look so disappointed to see me," he tells her, smiling down at her. "I'm just trying to be nice. You know, like _friends_ do." He shrugs. "You looked like you could use a friend, all alone over here, sandwiched between two conversations. Come on. We'll make coffee, talk until the bell rings."

She feels herself scowl, ignores the fact that all that seems to do is make his grin widen. "I don't need more coffee," she grumbles. "I should go up to my class, though, and set things up for the day."

She pushes herself out of her seat, careful to avoid him as she walks around her chair and heads for the door, cup of coffee in one hand, the other wrapping around the fabric of her blazer to keep it occupied. She pushes herself past the physics teacher that was sitting next her, past the end of the conference table and manages to get into the cool, empty hallway before he catches up to her.

"You know what, you're right," he says. "The coffee down here sucks, which is exactly why I bought an espresso machine for our sector. I really should get one for the conference room, too, though. It would make those things much more bearable." He's rambling, like he's oblivious to the fact that she's trying to escape him.

He knows, though. She's absolutely _positive_ he knows.

"You must use the espresso machine a lot. You seem like the coffee drinking type," he says.

But she's _definitely_ not going to give him the satisfaction of admitting that she _does_ use the machine often, that she _is_ glad he bought it, because, truthfully, the coffee in the rest of the school tastes like, as Castle so eloquently put it on his first day, a monkey peed in battery acid.

So instead, she turns to look at him. "The coffee drinking type?"

He grins, and then with an annoying air of chivalry, he's pushing the door to the stairwell open for her, and she's forced to pass under his arm and thank him.

"Yeah," he picks back up as they're walking up the stairs, "the coffee drinking type. A little uptight, pretty quiet but definitely strong." He shrugs. "That, and they usually have a coffee cup in their hand most of the time." And he motions, with a flick of his wrist to the blue mug in her hand.

"Wow, Castle, astute observation skills you have there," she tells him. "Maybe you should've become a cop, with such expert skills. Writing books just doesn't do them justice."

"Oh?" he pipes up instantly, absolutely ignoring her sarcastic mockery. "How would you know if my books do my skills justice." He makes a fake gasping sound. "Unless you've read them?"

She rolls her eyes. "Yeah, because the only way to make fun of you is to have read your books," she mumbles. "Tell me, Castle, if your books are so good, why are you teaching?"

He holds the door open for her again, and she ignores the way her cheeks burn as she ducks under his arm and into the hallway, finding it just as empty as the one downstairs. She presses the cup of coffee against her chest, curls her fingers even tighter around the fabric of her blouse.

All she has to do is get to her classroom, slam the door behind her and he'll be gone, at least for the next hour or so. Longer, if she can make this cup of coffee last.

He shocks her, genuinely shocks her as he follows her towards the neighbor doors to their classrooms, and she thinks— _hopes_ —that maybe, just maybe, she's gotten him off her back for the morning. And she's really optimistic when her fingers close around the cold metal of the doorknob.

That is, until he's crowding into her space and his face is a little too close to her ear and she's somehow pressed against the door, her fingers curled around the knob, and _how did she end up here, exactly?_

His breath is warm against her cheek when he speaks. "I said we have to get to know each other, but I don't think we're ready for something so _deep_ yet," he whispers.

"And why's that?" She really hopes her voice doesn't waver, that he can't hear her nerves in her voice.

He pulls away, giving her space again, and she gently, carefully pushes herself away from the door, leaving a few inches of space between them.

"Because if I tell you mine, you have to tell me yours," he says. "And I don't think you're ready to tell me why you teach yet, so I won't make you feel obligated by telling you why I teach."

She nods dumbly, pulls her door open and slips inside, letting her weight fall back against the wall next to the door the minute she knows he can't bug her anymore.

And yet all she can think is how he went from invading her personal space to being so considerate so quickly.

And that he absolutely, positively _cannot_ know that she _really_ likes his books.

* * *

Somehow, teaching loses its magic when he gets his inspiration back, when the character still named _KB_ on his word document is consuming his thoughts more than any English class ever could. When his chest and fingers ache for a keyboard, for words and a story and it's a feeling he's missed so much, has waited for since he killed off Derrick Storm.

And now that he has it again, he feels like a teenager stuck in math class again.

It's the anxiously awaiting to get out of class, to be free again. Like a student stuck in a classroom, distracted and in no way motivated to do his work. And though he`s always prided himself on being able to connect with his students, put himself in their spot and understand why the wide reading project has _no_ appeal to them and why writing seems like a waste of time to them, this seems to be understanding them a little _too_ well for his taste.

He never did like this feeling, anyway, not while he was a student and definitely not now.

So when first period finally— _finally_ —ends, he half wants to sit down and and at least write out the idea he has. The general plot line. At least start mapping it out, maybe give _KB_ an actual name, or a love interest, or figure out the _something_ that happened all those years ago. For the sake of his story, of course.

And maybe for the sake of a certain doctor with the initials _KB_ that teaches next door. Just maybe. It just might have something to do with her, his idea behind this badass female cop. Maybe.

Not that he'll ever tell her that. That he's writing a book based on her. That all he wants to do now is write said book, and get to know her, the real her a little better.

She can't handle that any more than she can handle telling him the deeply hidden reason as to why she's a teacher.

He lingers awkwardly in the hallway between the first two courses, knowing that if he sits down and writes for the ten minute break he has, second period will be far worse than the first one was. So he stands next to his door, leans against the frame and greets his students with a smile.

He can't pretend he's not marginally disappointed when she doesn't come out.

The second class is harder, maybe because his class is being rowdy and doesn't want to work, maybe because about five minutes in he can hear her laugh—which he so rarely hears—through the wall that separates them. Maybe because all that does is make him want to write more. Or do _anything_ to make her laugh again because he's used to her serious side and he would give almost anything to have her trust him enough to let him see that side of her.

And then, once his students _finally_ get to work, he sits down at his computer, pulls up his mostly empty word document and starts writing down a multitude of ideas that could fill in the _something happened._ That could give his still nameless _KB_ a backstory, a good one. One that suits the mysterious woman next door.

His class spends the course working on the _All That I Am_ project, only a few of them getting up to ask him a question or two before sitting back down silently. He appreciates it, selfishly, as he quickly types out possibility after possibility, his mind wandering into dangerous territory.

A little too close to crossing the figurative and literal wall.

He lets himself, for just a moment, wonder what happened to Beckett. The actual Beckett. Not the slightly changed version of her that he finds himself writing about. _Her,_ and her mindless mumbling and the law school she dropped out of and the potential reasons why.

He would consider it being too hard, if he didn't know how crazily intelligent she is. He would guess something physical, if a physical problem would be reasonable cause for someone as determined as she is to drop out of pre-law. He would consider…everything, if anything seemed to fit.

 _Something happened._

He forces his mind off her and instead scribbles down ideas for _KB,_ who he _really_ needs to name.

* * *

 _Something happened:_

 _injury?_

 _challenge?_

 _health?_

 _loss._

* * *

She manages to avoid him for the next day, and the one after that and then the weekend comes with a happy day off, a peaceful morning of sleeping in and then sipping her coffee and munching on a breakfast of bacon and eggs, which is a fulfilling replacement for her usual quick bagel from the coffee shop down the street.

Saturday morning, she finishes correcting the _Wide Reading_ project, sets the corrected work in the bag she brings to work every day and breathes a sigh of relief that it's done. She drops her pen onto her kitchen island, tugs her fingers to ease the cramped tightness in them from holding the pen for too long.

She ends up running herself a bath after that, lets her gaze skim over her collection of books, purposefully ignoring the row of _his_ novels with worn spines that sit on the top shelf. She can't read those while taking a bath. Absolutely _cannot_. Not now that they're…conversing. Or, well, sorta, somewhat, _maybe_ friends.

She instead pulls one of Patterson's books off the shelf, like a silent, never to be seen or hear _that will show Castle to try and befriend me._ Not that he'll ever know. Not that anybody will ever know that she's trying to avoid letting him have _any_ presence in her life, that she's avoiding him in every sense of the word.

She doesn't end up reading in the bath, though. It doesn't feel right without the familiar, comforting flow of his words, the plots she's read over and over and over again. So the book—Patterson's book—rests on the tray at the side of her tub as she lathers her legs in bubbles and massages shampoo into her scalp, as she massages the muscles of her shoulders the best she can, lets her hands drift over her breasts, down her abdomen…

Afterwards, she pulls on a pair of jeans and a plum purple t-shirt that falls off one shoulder. She dabs on a thin layer of foundation, swipes a sheen layer of gloss across her lips and brushes some dark brown mascara onto her lashes. She pulls her hair into a tight, high ponytail like she sometimes does for work. A pair of heels pulled over her feet and she's out the door, walking over to the small, nearby cafe where she meets her dad for lunch every weekend.

As usual, he's there before her. He always is, like he's scared that she'll think he's late, that he forgot…that he slipped back into his old ways.

She has to admit that after five years of showing up every weekend to find him waiting for her, she probably _would_ be worried, probably would rush over to his place to make sure he was sober and conscious and just…forgot.

She pushes that thought away and smiles at him from the doorway before making her way across the cafe to slide into their usual booth. He already has a glass of water sitting in front of him, and the menus are all closed and sitting at the edge of the table. They already know what they're ordering.

"Hi, Dad," she greets softly.

"Hi, Katie." He smiles. "How have you been?"

She shrugs. "Good. Same old, same old. Teach, correct, repeat," she tells him, smiling. "I finally finished correcting the _Wide Reading_ project. It took _forever_."

"Oh?" he asks. "And how did your class do?"

"Good," she answers.

He smiles at her. "With a teacher like you, it only makes sense."

She blushes, tries to come up with a reasonable response that doesn't sound either full of herself or self-discriminating, only to be saved by the kind, young waitress that happily takes their orders. She gets herself a burger and a strawberry milkshake, as always, and her father orders the same thing, keeping his water, however.

They eat in silence, simply enjoying each other's company, admiring the progress they've made over the past five years. She always appreciates seeing him neat and buttoned up like the father she grew up with, the one who used to carry her on his shoulders and tell her details of fake law cases and who pulled Legos out of her nose and tried to scare away all her boyfriends when she was young and whose brown hair turned grey when all that did was make her want to be with them even more.

She missed this. For five years, she really missed this.

"What are you thinking, Katie?" he asks.

She blinks out of her thoughts, turns to meet his gaze. "Just…about how far we've come," she tells him. "You know, same old, same old sappy stuff," she elaborates. She reaches out for her milkshake, closes her fingers around the cold glass and pulls it over to her, just close enough to curl her lips around the straw and take a long, sweet sip.

"Right," he says. "I once never thought we would get here, either, Katie, but I've made a lot of progress since then. I'm done with the booze."

She smiles at him. "I know, Dad. I don't doubt that. Just being…nostalgic," she shrugs.

"I know. That wasn't my point," he answers, taking another sip of his water.

"Oh?"

"Katie," he says and _crap,_ that's the voice he uses when he's going to delve into some emotional, personal, _this isn't what she wants for you_ speech.

" _Dad_ , you've given me this speech so many times."

"That's my job," he says. "So I won't stop giving you the speech until you start to listen."

She grins. "Because I do that so well," she mutters sarcastically.

"Yeah, well, the parenting books always say to repeat your lesson until a child listens," he shrugs. "So, I will repeat. Your mother wouldn't want this for you, Katie. I moved on from the booze, because she would want me to keep living. You need to stop burying yourself in your work and let yourself be happy. Make friends–"

"I have friends."

"–fall in love," he smiles.

She frowns, takes another sip of her milkshake. "I don't need a boyfriend, Dad," she argues. "Besides, why do you suddenly want me to have a love life? When I was a teenager, that was the last thing you wanted."

"You're not a teenager anymore," he tells her. "You're thirty-one. And my only chance at grandkids."

" _Dad_."

He smiles. "That reminds me of when you were a teenager and your Mom mentioned grandkids," he says. And then his face goes serious. "You told me all the time that your Mom wouldn't want me to be an alcoholic, Katie," he tells her. "She wouldn't want you to shut the world out, either."

She doesn't answer. Because, _of course,_ she knows he's right. And he knows she won't admit it. So instead, they both go back to their burgers. She finishes her milkshake last, slurping from the bottom like a child and he smiles at her from across the table as he pops the last bite of his burger into his mouth.

She pays—it's her weekend—and they part at the booth, going separate ways down the sidewalk, as always. She gives him a quick hug, tells him she had fun before he holds the glass door open for her and she walks past him and onto the busy New York City sidewalk.

She squeezes between two people like a true New Yorker and falls into step with the familiar, quick pace.

* * *

It starts with a flash of brown hair, light and caramel and sparkling in the sunlight, in the rays that reflect off the hints of metal in a rather understated neighborhood. And then it's the familiar high ponytail, a hairstyle he sees only on athletes and on the occasional Friday. The sharply angled shoulders and the jaw that he just barely gets a glimpse of when she turns to look at someone behind her.

 _Beckett_.

He almost stops in his tracks, but the hustle and bustle of the sidewalk keeps him going, forces him to keep walking, in the same direction as her. His steps are slightly stumbled, and he's clumsily trying to make his way to the edge of the crowd so he can slow down, but some distance between them before she accuses him of stalking her or following her or something like that.

Because he _wasn't_.

It's not his part of the city, that's for sure. His apartment is in a different neighborhood, as is the school and, really, the only reason he comes here is when he's in the mood to write but is lacking inspiration. But Alexis was meeting friends in the area, and he stopped at a bookstore he loves to do signings at because it has maintained the slightly rustic style and is still filled with the smell of ink and paper. And then he decided to just explore the rest of the neighborhood and then… _her_.

This must be near where she lives, he assumes, even though it's really not what he expected. Most of the teachers at the school are trapped in a limbo, the pay relatively high, the city _very_ expensive. And this neighborhood is still not cheap. No, an apartment around here is still very expensive.

And then he remembers, _law school,_ and wonders what else might be behind the tailored suits and the tight-lipped smiles that Beckett offers every day at work.

The heads in front of him bob with the steps of each person, and all he can hear is the traffic and the loud steps of men, the sharp clicks of women's heels. He watches the intertwining of paths, the rude way people cut each other off as they turn corners and slip into shops and just hurry to their destination without a thought about anyone else.

He's lost her in the crowd, now. Lost the wisps of caramel hair and the streak of bare golden skin at her shoulder that he's never seen before, never within the confines of the school's walls. She's lost between people, gone, and he stupidly finds himself missing the sight of her, even just the back of her head and her…

No.

He slips onto one of the quieter streets, finds only a handful of people dotting the sidewalk and a sweet couple walking hand in hand. He follows the small street up to another busier one, plants himself on the corner, and doubles back, heading back to the parking garage where he parked his car.

He really shouldn't still be surprised he saw her, surprised that she just walks the streets like any other person, surprised that she has the money to frequent this neighborhood. He really shouldn't be surprised by her as much as he is, in general. It's not like he knew much about her before, not like he truly has anything to base his assumptions on.

It's not like he knows her. So why does he constantly feel like she's throwing him for a loop?

He swallows that thought back as he slides into the driver's seat of his car and turns the key in the ignition.

He gets back to his place with little delay, parking his car and greeting the doorman on his way in. Alexis should still be out, and Mother will probably be gone, too. It's confirmed when he walks into the big, empty loft. He drapes his jacket over the back of the couch, walks through the living room and into his office.

His laptop, as always, sits closed on the desk. He drops into his chair and pulls the lid open. His fingers drift experimentally across the keyboard as he gets comfortable, rolls up to the edge of the desk and stretches his legs out below it. And then he's pulling up the document of his new project and stares at what he last wrote. The _something happened_ possibilities.

She still doesn't have a name, this new character of his. Or a backstory behind his final decision to make the _something_ that happened some sort of loss. Grief. Death. _Murder._

Something about seeing her, though, inspires him every time.

He thinks back to the wisps of caramel hair, the slice of golden skin. He remembers the jackets she wears that accentuate her small waist, the pants that hide what he can only imagine are mile long legs. He thinks of her dedication and her follow-the-rules demeanor.

This character wasn't really meant to be based so strongly on her, but she's sure as hell turning out to be.

Despite that, and the churning deep in his gut that is telling him that he really _shouldn't_ be doing this without her knowing, without her knowing him, or, God forbid, liking him, he still finds himself imagining her as he writes out the personality he imagines for this mysterious _KB._

Really smart. Very savvy. Haunting good looks. Really good at her job—a cop, not a teacher, because this _is_ a mystery novel. And kinda slutty—for entertainment purposes only.

He can picture it already. A woman with long brown hair and brown eyes that shimmer with green, who wears button-downs at work, comes undone at night. A strong woman. A brave woman. A woman with a past that haunts her, that drives her, that has changed her and helped her become the woman she is at the time of his story.

Not quite _KB._

 _Nikki Heat._


	4. Chapter 4

_**oxymoron**_

* * *

 _oxymoron:_ (noun) a figure of speech in which apparently contradictory terms appear in conjunction

* * *

He's the first person she sees on Monday. The weekend done and school back in session, and she makes the stupid decision to wait for her morning coffee so she can make it with the espresso machine. Which is, of course, in the language department of the school. And that's where all the language teachers spend most of their time. Including him.

So, really, she should have figured that he _might_ be there, should have guessed that she wouldn't be able to get in, get out without anyone seeing her. But she was running a little late—well, later than usual—with her bag in one hand, her jacket pulled on haphazardly, and she hadn't really been thinking much at all as she ran up the stairs and into the department.

And, well, she stops running when she runs into him. Accidentally, of course. But still, right into him, and his hands press against her sternum as his mug tilts around her breasts and her lower body presses against his and _fuck_. What a _great_ way to start the week. Covered in coffee with Castle standing just a little too close.

Yeah, she really should start thinking before she comes in here.

Her jacket covers her shoulders, but it keeps none of her front hidden. Which is bad, _really bad_ , because her shirt is white and with his coffee coating it, it turns annoyingly see-through and clings to her body and if she had the courage to look down, she's fairly certain she would be able to see the color and shape of her pale pink lace bra. But her eyes are clamped shut in humiliation, so she can't see.

He's silent, absolutely silent for a moment too long. And that's what has her forcing her eyes open. Because no mortification or embarrassment can keep her from acting on the fear that wells in her chest while he's being quiet. Castle is not quiet. He has never been quiet, in the three years that she's…shared a wall with him.

What she sees has her wanting to clamp her eyes back shut. And kill him. She also wants to kill him. Because he's _staring._ At her chest. At the bra that anyone could see through her shirt. Blatantly _staring_ , like a teenage boy seeing boobs for the first time and, okay, maybe killing him would be a little bit of a stretch. Maybe she should take it as some sort of twisted, unspoken compliment.

But it's Castle. And he's staring at her breasts. And she's had a rough morning. So she's really not in the mood to twist her thoughts from angry to flattered.

She ends up hitting him. Though she's tempted to slap him across the face— _that would teach him for barging into her life and trying to become her friend—_ she's not heartless. She knows he has a class to teach in about half an hour, knows that that task will be made much more difficult with a handprint on his cheek. So she settles for what she knows is a hard, sharp whack to his arm before shoving him away.

He stumbles back visibly. Blinks and stabilizes himself. His mouth seems to form words, an apology maybe, but nothing comes out. He's still staring. Just…at her face now.

She hopes he can see that she's _fuming_.

"Beckett…"

"No," she all but shouts. "What the hell, Castle?"

His mouth opens and closes again, like he's trying to formulate an effective response. But his eyes are still unfocused and they dart down a few times too many, making her own gaze follow them.

She pulls the sides of her blazer closed over her chest so quickly is almost hurts when her fists hit her ribs. "Stop it!" she tells him. "Stop staring at… Just stop it!"

He holds his hands up in surrender. "I… Sorry. It's just… You're beautiful."

He says it like he means it. Breathes it, really. Like it didn't mean to say it, but, to him, the words are true, _so true._ Like he truly finds her _beautiful._ He says it like no person has ever said it before and she's almost tempted to believe him. She feels her cheeks burn as blood floods them. She _does_ believe him. Or at least that he believes them, those words.

It should make her happy. But all it does is make the anger burn even more within her.

"I'm _beautiful_? That's all you have to say? You run into me, cover me in your coffee and all you have to say is that I'm _beautiful_?"

"You are," he says. He says it like it's a fact, as true as _the sky is blue._ "And, at risk of getting hit again, you are the one that ran into me. Speaking of which, why such a hurry? Even now, there's still like twenty minutes until class begins."

"I…" She doesn't have an answer. Why was she in such a hurry with half an hour to spare? So she would have the time to sit down at her desk and go over her lesson plan for today…again, just to make sure she doesn't forget anything…or to avoid actually doing something not work related with her time?

That's not an answer she's willing to face right now.

"You are lucky I have a spare shirt here," she spits, "or you _would_ be teaching with my handprint of your face."

She turns on her heel, walks out of the room. His voice is a distant echo.

"Slapping is hot, Beckett, but I prefer spanking."

She rolls her eyes, stops at her locker and pulls out the plain grey t-shirt she keeps there. It's more…casual than she's used to wearing at work, but it'll have to do. She is _not_ going in there wearing Castle's coffee. She throws it over her arm and heads over to the empty ladies' room.

She pulls open a stall door, slams it shut behind her and turns the lock. She pulls off her blazer first. It's a little wet, but the black hides any traces of the coffee that will likely leave a stain on her favorite white button down. That's what she tugs off second, ignoring the wet, sticky feeling that it leaves on her skin—she'll have to find the time to wash that off during lunch—and tosses it over the metal door. She pulls on the t-shirt, tucks it into her pants in a feeble attempt to still look professional, slips the blazer back on and leaves.

She still hasn't had her morning coffee, she remembers as she walks by Mrs. Karpowski's history class and sees her co-worker sitting there sipping on her own cup. She hasn't had breakfast. She hasn't had coffee. She should probably go and get something from the language department's lounge.

But that involves walking by his class, which means walking by him. Or running into him in the lounge. So she ignores the knowledge that her stomach will be begging for something before lunch rolls around and darts into her own classroom instead.

Her eyes instantly land on a cup on her desk. A cup of coffee, a latte, with some leafy pattern in the foam. There's a note next to it, a yellow post-it.

 _I'm sorry,_ it reads, simple as that. No name, but it doesn't take her more than a millisecond to figure out who it's from.

* * *

First period is _long_. Really, really long. As in every second that ticks by seems to take as much time as a usual minute, and he feels like a kid again when he realizes about fifteen minutes into the course that he's, hopefully discreetly, checking the clock every two minutes. And when he tries to stop that, because he _knows_ that only makes time pass slower, he ends up checking it every three minutes until the second bell rings.

It haunts him. The image of her _haunts_ him like his fear of being stuck alone in enclosed spaces and the memory of the day he thought he lost Alexis in the mall. But this is…happier. Like a teenage boy never forgets his first time, no matter how short and messy and really not all that good it was. No matter how stupid it was, no boy will ever forget it.

Well, part of him is convinced he will never forget the image of her in a skintight, wet, white shirt, the pale pink of her bra just barely visible through the fabric. Yeah, it was lace. He's seen enough bras in his life to know that much. It was lace and pink and so _not_ what he imagined from her. Okay, well, maybe he _could_ have imagined her wearing lace, but not pink. Definitely not pink.

He also would have never guessed that he would be so affected by the sight of her. Not even naked. No, she was still fully clothed…sorta. She was still wearing a shirt, no matter how transparent. And pants. And a jacket. And that pale pink bra. She was in no way _naked_ , but suddenly, the image of her red cheeks and the fire in her green eyes—anger, not lust, he reminds himself over and over again—and, well, _her_ is just…there. Constantly.

He takes his ten minute break between first and second period to slip into the language department's lounge and grab a snack from the fridge. It's a yogurt Ryan brought in a couple days ago, the initials _KR_ scribbled onto the top of it. He makes himself a coffee, too, since he never did get to have one this morning. He spent the last of his free time before class making the one he gave her.

He makes his way through the student-filled hallways afterwards, twisting between the teens, ignoring a couple of them that are shoved up against the wall in between two lockers, making out, smiling at a girl who greets him with a small wave. His class isn't too far from the language department lounge, but he still fears, for a moment, that he's going to be late to get back.

That is, until he turns the corner, finds himself standing in the stretch of hallway that has the door to his classroom and hers and a handful of others, and sees her standing there. She's just standing there, right outside her door, which she _never_ does. She stands there before first period, and before third period, probably more to ensure that her students know she's there. But never between first and second or third and fourth.

He's actually taken aback by the sight of her, just standing there, glancing around the hall, over the heads of the students, which are now becoming sparse as the bell approaches. The grey shirt is the first thing he notices, the way it's tucked tightly into her pants. She looks good, more approachable than she does in her usual outfits. _Beautiful._

He's about to dart into his classroom, partly because the bell is about to ring, but mostly so she doesn't catch him staring. The last thing he needs is for her to freak out at him again, after the…incident this morning, especially in front of the students. He also doesn't need to get sappy and blurt out thoughts that were meant to stay silent, like he did this morning.

But then she turns to him, eyes catching his for a brief moment, and she smiles. Shyly, more than anything, and partially apologetically. He returns it. He is, after all, the one who should be apologizing to her.

The bell rings. Her smile widens just a bit, just barely, and she nods her head in acknowledgement of the silent exchange before disappearing into her classroom.

Second period becomes just as long. His students listen, do their work, answer his questions and participate. It's an ideal teaching day, the kind of class every teacher wants, even if it only lasts one day. He really should be enjoying it, should be spending his time smiling at his students, silently thanking them for doing so well for the day.

But all he can think of is her.

This time, it's not her bra, or her skin-tight, see-through shirt. It's the the angry blush of her cheeks or the flashes in her eyes. It's nothing remotely sexy, really. Not erotic or in anyway something that could have, or would have, fueled his fantasies.

It's her smile now. The fact that she didn't avoid him in the hall. Didn't get mad at him for staring or remind him that he ruined her shirt. She didn't even look away until it was necessary. And she _smiled._

Her smile is beautiful. He wants to see her smile more often…as her friend.

When second period ends, he does remember to thank his class for being so well-behaved before telling them all to enjoy their lunch as they file out of the classroom, meeting their friends in the hallway. He lingers against his desk as the halls clear quickly, the students all making their way to the cafeteria. Besides at the end of the day, it's the most excited he ever sees them. He remembers being that excited.

Since becoming a teacher, he's never been anyway near excited for lunch. Until today, as something blooms in his chest, something that feels oddly like hope.

He makes his way into the hall to see her disappear behind a corner. Part of him is tempted to follow her, but most of him knows that would seem desperate. Really desperate. So instead, he makes his way into the language department lounge, finds it empty. It usually is. Most teachers stick to their classrooms for lunch, besides him, Ryan and Espo, and they have cafeteria watch today, so…

It might be blindly optimistic to hope that she might show up, if only for a few seconds.

He's about halfway done the warmed up pasta he has for lunch when the door cracks open, and there she is. Blindly optimistic it was apparently not, as she quietly slips into the room, shuts the door behind him. She smiles at him again, heads straight for the kettle.

"Hi," he greets.

"Hi."

He settles his fork back into the tupperware dish as she makes her lunch, leaning against the counter, back to him, as the kettle boils the water. She pours it into something he can't see before turning back to him, lunch clutched in her hand as she drops quietly into the chair across from him.

He eyes her meal for a second before looking up at her. "Mhm," he hums, "softened noodles and a little pouch of seasoning in a styrofoam cup. Delicious."

She rolls her eyes. "Not everyone can bring in leftovers from nice, home-cooked meals," she counters. "I didn't take you for the cooking kind."

She's striking up a conversation, actually initiating social conduct between them, and he wouldn't care if she was asking him about whether or not he's an organ donor, he can't help the smile that comes up on his face, can't pretend he wouldn't answer any question she may have.

"I have a teenage daughter, Beckett. And I was a single dad for years. You learn how to cook," he shrugs. He takes a small bite of the pasta, swallows and then motions to his meal with the prongs of his fork. "But this is actually Alexis' specialty. I swear that girl is an overachiever at _everything_."

She hums, nodding her head. "I remember. She was in my class last year," she says. "Aced it, if I remember correctly. Star student. Sweet. Helpful. Cooperative." Her cheeks go read suddenly, and she stares down as her styrofoam cup of cheap soup. "You should, uh, be proud."

He smiles. "I am. No matter what other mistakes I've made in my life, even the ones I made with her mother, Alexis will never be one of them," he tells her. He takes another bite of his pasta, swallows and chuckles softly. "We're already delving into the really deep stuff," he says. "Maybe we should start with something lighter."

She swallows her own bite of soup. "Like what?"

He shrugs. "What do you think that meeting Wednesday is about?" he suggests.

Her brows rise for a minute, and then she shrugs. "Probably those stupid pre-spring break field trips they organize every year for the students," she answers. He watches as she takes another bite of her lunch. "I thought this whole friend thing was about talking about things beyond work."

He can't help the smile that comes across his face at her words. "So, we are friends?"

She looks up from her styrofoam cup of soup. "I don't know," she shrugs. "We're…in between friends and co-workers."

He nods. "Well, then, we'll talk about an in between topic," he suggests. Her head tilts to the side in question, and he leans forward, pushing his almost empty container of pasta aside. "I'm doing this _All That I Am_ project with the students, but I can't figure out what to write as my anecdote. Any suggestions?"

Her smile, as small as it was, drops into a frown. "You're actually doing it?" she asks.

"Why not? I have nothing to hide," he says, and then he thinks better of it. "Well, I have _some_ things to hide, but it's not like I have to write about _those_ things. So, why not do the project? It'll be a chance for them t get to know me better, maybe relate to me a little better."

"Because your childish demeanor isn't enough for them to relate to you," she mutters.

He ignores her comment. "It'll help me get to know myself a little better. You should do it, too. You don't even have to show your class, just do it for you. Explore yourself," he suggests.

She looks up at him. "What if I don't want to explore myself?" she asks.

He shrugs. "Then don't. I'm not saying you have to. I just think it's a good idea," he tells her. "Alexis did the project last year, in your class, and said it helped her get to know herself. She says it's what made her realize how interested she is in law." He's tempted to reach over and rest his hand over hers, she looks so torn up inside and conflicted. "You look like you need to…understand yourself, maybe face something that's happened in your life. You don't have to share it with anyone, Ka- Beckett. I'm choosing to, but I think this could be good for you, no matter what you do with the finished product."

She eyes him for a moment before pushing herself up and out of her chair. "Don't think you know me," she mutters.

He wants to say something, but he can't. She's already dumping the rest of her soup down the sink. His mind is still trying to come up with an adequate response, words that will put her at ease, she's already walking out the door.

He half expects to not see her again for the rest of the day, but she appears in the doorway again a few seconds later. Her gaze is hesitant and shy when it meets his.

"Write about something you did with Alexis," she says. "For you anecdote, I mean. You seem happiest when you talk about her." And then she's gone.

* * *

Lunch turns to third period and third turns to fourth and she's standing in front of her classroom's Smart Board waiting for her final flood of students. They come slowly, a few at a time, as always. The quiet ones first, the ones she hears talk about their boyfriends _every day_ coming last, with goofy grins on their faces that do nothing to hide why they're late. She remembers those days, when she was late or skipping altogether.

She sighs and pushes those thoughts back, ignoring his voice, his words echoing in her head as she grabs a pile of lined papers from her desk and begins passing them two by two to each student, telling the whole class to take out a pencil. They groan in unison, because _of course_ they know what she's planning for the very beginning of this class.

She waits until everyone has a paper on their desk and a pencil perched in their hand before giving them the instructions.

"I want you all to narrate your first ever memory," she says. She glances at the watch strapped to her wrist. "You guys have five minutes starting now."

They take their time to start writing, but once each pencil is pressed to a paper and the room is filled with the soft, almost inaudible sound of writing that she's always inexplicably found comfort in, she drops into her chair, pulls her own lined paper in front of her and clicks open her pen, presses it against the paper and writes the first memory that comes to mind.

It's not her first memory, far from, in fact. And it doesn't fit the instructions she offered her class, but she wants to write it down. Something inside her needs to write it down.

 _You look like you need to…understand yourself, maybe face something that's happened in your life._

So she writes it down.

 _We were supposed to go to dinner—my mom, my dad and I. She was gonna meet us at the restaurant, but she never showed. Two hours later, we went home and there was a detective waiting for us, Detective Raglan. They found her body. She had been stabbed. She still had her money, and purse, and jewelry. And it wasn't a sexual assault either. They attributed it to gang violence. Random wayward event._

It takes her nowhere near the five minutes she allowed her students. But it's all she can face right now. All she can face without breaking down in front of her entire class or needing to escape and lock herself in the bathroom for the next five minutes. It's all she can…

She lets out a sigh, looks down at her watch to see that there's a good three minutes left until their five minutes are up. She swipes the piece of paper off her desk, folds it over and over again until it fits in her blazer's small pocket. Maybe she'll add to it later, or some other day. When she's ready to face more. When she has to face more.

The five minutes run out and she's standing in front of her class, watching as they drop their pencils in relief and hope she doesn't call on them to read their work. Her fingers toy awkwardly with the piece of paper in her pocket. She swallows thickly, turns to the Smart Board and picks up the black pen before turning back to her students.

"What you just wrote," she says, "is an anecdote." She writes the word down on the Smart Board. "I know we've already gone over this, but I've noticed that a few of you are struggling with the third portion of the _All That I Am_ project, which is an anecdote. So we're going to go over what makes an anecdote an anecdote again."

She goes over the elements of an anecdote in detail, from its chronology to its realism, gives examples of what kind of stories qualify as anecdotes, leaves her Smart Board scribbled in black and red and blue and green marks, hoping her students understand a little better.

"Does anyone have any questions?" she asks the class.

Steph raises her hand.

"Yes?"

"Can you do the project, too, Ms. Beckett?" she asks, tracing circles on her paper with the tip of her eraser. "I know you already said no, but I think it would help us to have an example of exactly what you're looking for. You could present it to us when we get back from spring break, the week before our project is due. That way, we all know what you're looking for. I'm sure it would help."

She swallows thickly again.

Steph's reasoning is logical, to say the least. Having an example of what she's looking for _would_ probably help them excel at the project. Though… She could just photocopy and hand out some of the best work from last year, or last semester, too. That would bring the same result.

"I…"

" _You look like you need to…understand yourself, maybe face something that's happened in your life."_

"I…"

" _I think this could be good for you, no matter what you do with the finished product."_

She smiles, even as fear wells in her chest. This might be a bad idea. This might be a very bad idea. Only a week ago, she wouldn't have taken his advice if she was dying and he was the only one there and now…

Now…

"You know what? I think I will."

* * *

 **A few people commented on the lack of Caskett interaction thus far. I just wanted to let you know that that will _definitely_ be resolved as the story progresses. Anyway, hope you all enjoyed!**


	5. Chapter 5

_**oxymoron**_

* * *

 _oxymoron:_ (noun) a figure of speech in which apparently contradictory terms appear in conjunction

* * *

She avoids him on Tuesday. Dances around the door to his classroom, leaves five minutes late and enters five minutes early so she doesn't run into him in the hall, or outside their doors, or in the department lounge, or in the parking lot. Really, she avoids pretty much _everywhere_ she could run into him.

Because she's not quite ready to face the fact that she took _Richard Castle's—_ best selling-novelist, man child, page six playboy—advice about not only teaching, but facing her grief and getting to know herself.

She spent Monday evening curled up in her bed, the paper pinched between her fingers, still folded. The words were hidden, but they were there all the same. She knew them by heart, had run over them time and time again, long before she wrote them down for her so-called anecdote, when she wrote them down the first time, five years ago.

Her therapist had told her one day that she had to face what happened, without analyzing it. She had to look at it matter-of-factly. She had to understand that, with or without justice, the situation was factual and, in some ways, more simple than it appeared. So she wrote those words. Those simple sentences. Those _facts_ down on a piece of lined paper and recited them to herself whenever everything became too much.

It helped, then. It helped. She hasn't recited them in a while. Hasn't faced them since the last time she stopped eating, and showering and going to work for the case of a file she's built up herself. That was three years ago, right after Richard Castle moved into the classroom next to hers and reminded her of justice and the books that kept her sane.

She blamed him, then. Told her therapist as much. Didn't stop until…

Until she was sitting across from him in the language lounge and realized that he saw right through her.

And _that's_ the other reason she avoided him all Tuesday.

He already seems to see right through her, she can't have him seeing even more.

She sighs as she parks her car in the staff parking lot, locks it and heads for the school. It's Wednesday morning and she doesn't have any way to avoid him today. Not all day, at least, because Wednesday morning comes with another stupid meeting. Another stupid staff assembly that everyone already knows the topic of. A stupid staff assembly that will in no way change her life, or day, or week, or month, beyond the hour she's going to waste in a chair, listening to Montgomery talk.

She walks into the conference room by Montgomery's office to find it mostly empty. Which makes sense, she supposes, considering the fact that the meeting doesn't actually start for ten minutes and people have a tendency to be late to these things. Montgomery welcomes her, and she smiles and returns the greeting as she drops into one of the chairs at the left side of the table.

The room fills up quickly. Science teachers, social studies teachers, math teachers, all grouping up and sitting side by side. She watches for Lanie, who walks in alongside another science teacher named Perlmutter—the students don't like him very much—before dropping into one of the seats next to her. Esposito and Ryan arrive a couple minutes later. Espo takes the seat next to Lanie, Ryan the seat next to Espo.

"Yo, Becks," greets Espo, "haven't seen you 'round much."

She shrugs. "A lot of work to do and an annoying guy always getting on my nerves," she says.

"Annoying? Nah, I'd say friendly," a voice suddenly interjects.

She turns to see him dropping into the chair at her other side, a bag falling against hers between their chairs. He smiles charmingly, waggles his eyebrows as though he said something even remotely suggestive and she rolls her eyes, turning back to Esposito as the final chairs around them are being filled.

"See?" she says. "Annoying."

"I don't know, Beckett," pipes up Ryan. "I get more of a friendly vibe between you two."

"Yeah, Beckett. He's gotten more smiles out of you today than in the past five years," pipes up Espo.

Lanie leans towards her, elbows her gently. "Kate? Anything you haven't been sharing about this new side to your _relationship_ with Castle?"

"Nothing I would be willing to share in the middle of this meaning," she answers.

Lanie's jaw drops, and the boys' too and she's fairly certain she can feel Castle's amused stare against the back of her head as Montgomery pipes up and _could he have worse timing?_

"Nothing at all, I mean," she mumbles, her cheeks burning red.

Montgomery keeps anyone from answering as he talks about how spring break is coming up as though they didn't already know, and about the annual school trips that precede it. It's the same stupid meeting they have every year. He goes on and on about the trips and then asks for two volunteers to chaperone each one. She's never volunteered.

Montgomery goes over the various trips, most in New York State, a handful in New Jersey, one for each grade, and one specifically for the seniors to Washington D.C. Some to specific cities, others to the middle of nowhere. It's a truly elaborate system, but apparently it's become tradition since the trips first began long before she started teaching here five years ago. At least, that's what Principal Montgomery says every year.

He's going over the list now, naming a location and a grade and she's barely listening because, really, she would rather sit in a silent classroom and get work done while monitoring detention for the students who couldn't go than have to animate these trips that always seem too short for what apparently fits into them.

Although, this year, she realizes a second too late, she should have listened.

Because she's not paying attention as Montgomery goes over the list of trips for ninth graders and takes the names of the volunteers. But she feels him staring at her and something deep in her gut seems to travel right up to form a ball in her throat. Dread. And of course, she's too focused on that to listen.

That is, until he's suddenly speaking next to her.

"Actually, Montgomery-"

 _He had better not._

"-Beckett and I-"

 _Oh, he's so going to._

"-will take that one."

 _Fuck._ He did.

He just volunteered her to chaperone…one of these trips. Now she just has to figure out which one.

* * *

He catches her checking the list of chaperones for each trip right after they leave the conference room, her finger drifting down the list of teachers until she finds her name.

The word she mutters when she does is definitely not permitted by school rules.

And then she turns around, spots him, and storms off angrily down the hall, the insistent, constant clicking of her heels leading him right down her path.

He catches up to her in the otherwise empty stairwell, and comes to the conclusion that every other teacher could sense her anger and opted for the south stairwell instead of the north one, no matter which one would bring them to their classrooms quickest. He's not sure whether he's supposed to be thankful that nobody will witness her kicking his ass for enlisting her without her permission, or if he should be scared that she'll use the lack of witnesses as an opportunity to kill him.

Either way, he won't be coming out of this a winner. Unless…

"Beckett!"

She stops immediately, one foot on the first step after the landing, the other still pressed against the floor. Her shoulders are tense, he can see that even through her jacket. Her neck is stiff, too. And her back. Well, she's just tense all over. And then she turns to face him. Her cheeks are red, burning and this time he's _positive_ it's with anger. Her eyes burn, too, as they meet his, letting him feel how upset she is.

Yeah, he's definitely not coming out a winner.

She steps back down, like a scene from a movie. "What the _hell_ were you thinking?" she asks. Her heels click slowly this time, in time with her purposeful steps. She holds one hand up and pokes him sharply in the chest, making him take a step away from her and press his palm against the spot that actually, surprisingly hurts. "What in the world did you think you were doing, signing me up for that stupid _camping_ trip?"

"I…" he stutters as her brows rise in anticipation of what he's certain she will deem an insufficient response. "Come on, Beckett. It'll be fun!"

She scowls. "How… You know, for all you know about me, I could have a rare anaphylactic allergy to pollen or something," she counters.

Well, that's a surprisingly lame argument.

"You don't," he tells her. "You go for runs in the trails on campus all the time. They go through the gardens. If you were anaphylactically allergic to pollen, you would be dead by now."

Her shoulders sag. "Fine," she says. "But that doesn't diminish my point. I could have a reason for never going on these things, you know. You don't know me, Castle. And you shouldn't be making decisions for me."

"I'm sorry," he tells her. "I just… We're friends now."

 _Between friends and co-workers,_ she had actually said yesterday.

But he still considers them _friends_.

She looks thoughtful, not that he can blame her after this morning.

"We're friends," he repeats, "and I would have gotten stuck chaperoning that one anyway, I always take the last one with no volunteers. And you almost never leave here, and never seem to have too much fun, so I figured… We could go together? Explore nature, have a water balloon fight, share a tent."

She reaches up and twists his ear.

"Apples! Apples! Apples!"

She, _thankfully,_ releases him and pushes him away again. "Apples?"

He shrugs. "My safe word."

She looks like she wants to hurt him again. Or maybe she's blushing. Oh, she is blushing.

"You know, I could use that sentence as the perfect out for this trip. Tell Montgomery I can't possibly go with you because I feel you are sexually harassing me in the workplace."

"I wouldn't call it harassment, Beckett, if you're enjoying it, too," he counters.

Has she gotten closer?

"I'm not sharing a tent with you," she tells him.

"Do you have one of your own?" he challenges.

She scowls, again. "No. But the school provides them."

He shrugs. "Ew. Those things are disgusting. Really, just old and bad I have a nice, expensive, high-quality and very roomy two person one."

"I said we're not sharing a tent," she argues.

"Oh, but we will. Don't worry, though. We'll have separate sleeping bags."

"Say I agree to this trip, what exactly will we be doing?" she asks. He doesn't miss her change of subject.

"I told you," he reminds her, "exploring nature, have a water balloon fight, we will also read off of random cue cards and swim, a _lot_."

Her scowl deepens. "Swim?"

He could reach out and touch her now. "Don't tell me you don't know how to swim, Beckett."

She rolls her eyes. "I know how to swim, Castle."

"Good," he says. "Then bring a swimsuit." He doesn't think about his next words. "You would look great in a bikini."

Her mouth opens, but he doesn't give her the chance to speak before pressing him back up against the brick wall, turning his head and cowering away from her.

"Don't poke me."

She doesn't say a word, though, and the empty stairwell is filled with only the mixed sounds of their breathing and _when did they start breathing so heavily?_

He attributes it to the anger, and is still almost scared to open his eyes.

She's going to hit him. Or kick him. Or knee him in the groin. Or maybe poke him. He's sure of it.

But when his gaze meets hers, she doesn't look like she wants to hurt him. No, she looks like she wants to…

… _kiss him?_

He barely has time to process the ever so slight flicker of her eyes down to his lips before she's gone, leaving him stunned, pressed against the stairwell wall. Shaken, because that was definitely an unexpected twist in the story.

Kate Beckett wanted to kiss him.

* * *

No. No. _No._ This is _not_ happening.

She pushes into her classroom with only a couple minutes before the bell, slams the door closed behind her and presses her back against it, lets her head fall back against the door and her lips fall open. She sucks in a deep, desperate breath through parted lips, dizzy suddenly.

 _No,_ she did _not_ just want to kiss Richard Castle.

But she did. She really, _really_ did.

 _Fuck._ Is it always this hot in here?

She tugs her jacket off her shoulders, desperate and fumbling and _it's really, really hot in here._ It gets caught awkwardly around her wrists and she shakes it off, flings it too the floor as she begins to push her sleeves up her arms, to her elbows. The fabric burns as it tightens around her arms, but she ignores it. Everything else seems to burn, too. Her forehead, the back of her neck, her cheeks, her ears.

Her lips are tingling like they were earlier. It never stopped. They're tingling because they want to be touched and she _hates_ it. She hates that, even now, she wants to kiss him. She wants to kiss him and he's not even here. She wants to kiss him because he drives her _crazy…_ apparently in more ways than she thought he did.

Not to mention the heat in…

No, she's not going to think of that. She has approximately one minute until the bell rings and her students show up and the last thing she needs is to look like a blushing schoolgirl when they do. She prides herself on having her students respect her. Having them see her in her current, flustered state would not be conducive to keeping up that image.

She lets out a sigh, fans her face a couple more times. The air feels cold against her cheeks, her neck, where blood makes her skin burn. And then she pushes herself up, off the door, picks her jacket up off the floor and sets it on the back of her chair nicely. There's only about thirty seconds until the bell rings.

She really needs to compose herself before then.

She tugs her sleeves back down her arms, shaking them so her shirt sits comfortably. She pulls her water bottle out of her bag and guzzles down a drink, hoping it will do something to cool the heat that radiates from the inside out. Maybe it will get rid of the blushing, too, she hopes, as she sets the bag so the handles hang off the back of the chair. She fans herself a few more times, pulls the door open just as the bell rings and students separate to head to their classes.

"Hi," she welcomes the first student to walk in, and hopes that the young, seemingly innocent though super smart girl doesn't notice her red face or slightly shaky voice.

She can't bring herself to exit the classroom and stand by the door like she usually does before first period. She can't bring herself to face him, like she knows she'll have to if she lingers there right next to where he stands every morning. And she's certainly not willing to risk sneaking a glance to see if he actually is there, scared that they'll meet eyes and he'll see right through her again and _know,_ know how badly she wants to feel his lips on his.

Because, yes, she's trying to convince herself that he can't possibly know her well enough to have been able to tell during their encounter in the hallway. He was distracted. She was angry. Neither one of them should have been thinking about making out against the brick wall.

But she was. Somewhere behind her yelling and threatening and accusing him of sexually harassing her— _oh God, she actually did that_ —she was thinking about what it would feel like to have his lips against hers. Hot. Desperate. Her back pressed against the wall, the bricks rough against whatever skin was bare.

 _Fuck._ This is so not helping with her flustered, blushing situation that she's supposed to be trying to get rid of.

It becomes especially useless thinking when she misses the second bell, the one that officially announces the beginning of first period, and he's poking his head towards her and into her classroom, his face perhaps only a few inches from hers and _does he realize the students are watching?_

"Beckett, class has started," he whispers. "You wouldn't want your students thinking you've gone soft and impulsive, would you?"

Soft and impulsive? She winces. Her thoughts were more on the hard and impulsive side, but he doesn't need to know that. Instead, she avoids his gaze as she shakes her head "no" before turning into her classroom to start teaching first period.

By the time lunch comes around, she's almost managed to focus on her work and the papers grammar pop quizzes she has to correct instead of him and his lips. Almost. Because she realizes she's really not succeeding when the bell that ends second period rings and her stomach drops because she has another stupid, cheap soup cup, which requires boiled water, which requires the kettle in the department's lounge. And that's where he eats his lunch.

She waits five minutes before sneaking from her classroom up to the third floor and into Lanie's classroom, catching her friend just as she's leaving the classroom. It's the perfect excuse to avoid him and not look suspicious in the science lounge.

"Come on, Girl," says Lanie. "We'll get lunch and then we have to talk."

She agrees begrudgingly, because, as much as she hates spilling details of her personal life to anyone, talking to Lanie about him sounds much safer than talking to him about him. Or camping, or stairwells, or anecdotes. Really, safer than talking to him about anything, at this point.

She pours boiling water into her soup cup as Lanie grabs her salad and small container of dressing from the fridge, and though Mr. Davidson, the anatomy teacher that, despite his relentless flirting, she's never wanted to kiss, invites them to stay, Lanie excuses them and leads her back to her classroom.

The annoying part of cup soup is that it takes about five minutes to cook and soften, which leaves her without excuse to avoid talking about it. About why she's escaping to the science department for the first time in weeks.

"So," begins Lanie, stabbing at her veggies and lettuce with her fork, "care to explain why writer boy is suddenly volunteering you for school trips?"

She swallows thickly. Does she _care_ to explain? Not exactly. Will she explain? Yes. Mostly.

She spends her lunch break lazily eating her soup and telling Lanie everything about this newfound, sometimes regretted friendship she's formed with Castle. The very reason he's suddenly volunteering her to do things without her actual consent, leaving out nothing that led up to that meeting and his actions that certainly made everyone turn their heads.

She leaves out the fact that she wanted—wants, if she's being honest—to kiss him. Lanie doesn't ask, after all, about what happened _after_ the meeting.

* * *

She's avoiding him. You don't have to be a detective to realize that. She's not in the lounge for lunch or standing outside her door before her first class. Or before her third class. He spots her through his door's window heading to the bathroom in the middle of third period and it only confirms how absolutely desperate she is to avoid him.

It's no surprise, really. Beckett has tried to avoid him multiple times, for things much less…shocking than their almost kiss in the stairwell. Honestly, he expected this.

That doesn't keep it from stinging a little when he spots her sneaking back into her classroom after her untimely bathroom break.

The end of the day comes around slowly, last period having him checking the window periodically as though she might actually be there, as though she doesn't have a class of her own to teach. The students notice. Hannah asks him if he's okay at one point and he doesn't have a logical reason as to why he keeps checking the door. He tells them that he has plans for the evening and is excited for school to be out, which, of course, gets him teased about his _date_ —if only.

When the bell finally rings, the students all gather up their books and leave in pairs and he stands at his desk until the last one is gone, Lucas, who trails behind on his own, meeting up with a girl from Beckett's class. She has jet black hair and thick bangs and carries her binders around all day just like Lucas does.

He strives to know and relate to his students. Well, he's pretty sure Lucas likes the black haired girl, the same way he likes Beckett. In a more than friendly way, he's now willing to admit.

After all, she did want to kiss him.

He can't help but smile at that thought, even though it still stings a little that she's avoiding him. Even though he has a sinking feeling in his gut telling him she might go to Montgomery and withdraw "her" offer to chaperone the camping trip again. God forbid he get stuck chaperoning it with Ms. Monroe— _Ellie,_ she had insisted last year—again, after the atrocity that was her annoying, unrelenting whining last spring. Turns out, drama teachers who wanted to make it on Broadway, using their degree to make them seem smarter than they really are, just aren't meant to go camping. Who would've thought?

He sighs as he stuffs his things into a bag messily, in that way Alexis hates, before throwing it over his shoulder and heading up a floor to see if his daughter and her friends need a ride. He purposefully avoids the north stairwell, doesn't even bother being prideful and denying that it's because of her. On the third floor, he easily spots Alexis' bright orange hair, heads over to where she's standing with a small group of her friends.

"You girls need a ride?" he asks.

Alexis turns to him and smiles as her friends greet him with soft "Hey, Mr. Castle,"s.

"No, thank you, dad," she answers, smiling. "Paige invited us to go out shopping. Her dad's gonna give us a ride."

He nods. "Credit card?"

She chuckles and shakes her head. "No, Dad, I save that for when I'm out with Gram."

"Yeah, your Gram sure does like to use my money," he agrees. "I'll see you later," he adds to his daughter before turning back down the hall.

Beckett is avoiding him. Alexis is ditching him for shopping with friends. Mother will be…he's not sure he even wants to know where. Sounds like an ideal night to figure out the conflict for Nikki Heat.

With another sigh, he head back down the stairs, jogging lightly down the two flights to end up on the main floor, pushing through the double doors and heading towards the staff parking lot.

His route brings him past the doorway to Montgomery's office, so when he overhears it's completely involuntary and not in any way intentional or planned. In fact, he expected her to still be in her classroom, or already gone.

"No, Sir," she says. Her voice soft, but somehow strong. Like it is when he can hear her answering questions for specific students in her classroom. Beautiful and almost melodic—that's her voice, after all—but firm. "Thank you for the out, but I think I would, uh, enjoy a camping trip, trying something new, for once."

Montgomery's deep, calm voice comes next. "Okay, Beckett. I just wanted to make sure since you didn't exactly volunteer your own time."

She laughs softly, such a beautiful sound. "No, Sir, I didn't," she confirms. But she's not angry anymore, at least not anywhere near as angry as she was this morning when…

He really needs to stop thinking of that.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Beckett," says Montgomery.

Oh, he should leave.

"Of course, Sir."

He really should leave. Before she sees him and gets angry again. He should leave. But, of course, he doesn't.

And then she's coming out of Montgomery's office, high ponytail swinging behind her head with every step, bag in one hand, the other curled around the hem of her jacket. He swallows thickly. He should have left, but it's too late now. And she's walking past him, her eyes darting to him, and then she keeps walking.

He runs a few steps to catch up to her, which might not be his best decision, but…

"So, you are coming?"

He barely has time to process the fact that she stopped walking before he stops, too, turning to face her.

Her nails are turning white where they're clenched around the strap slung over her shoulder, her teeth threatening to turn her bottom lip the same color if she doesn't stop nibbling on it soon.

"I'm not doing this for you, or because of you," she says—spits, really, like the words are venomous. "I told you we were _sorta friends,_ co-workers, Castle. And I told you not to think you know me, because you don't." Her eyes dart away from him, to the pale blue wall, and then back to his. "Me accepting to go camping has nothing to do with you beyond the fact that you're the one that volunteered me in the first place."

"Then why are you doing it, Beckett?" he counters. He steps closer to her, and she takes a step back.

"I'm doing this for Montgomery. He has been nothing but good to me, and has supported me through…everything," she says it like it's a secret, a word that holds so much, but that he's not allowed to know the meaning of. "I know he can never find people for this trip. Who wants to go camping with a bunch of teenagers?"

He knows it's rhetorical. "I don't mind it. The bus ride is kind of long, and last year a few too many people tried to make out behind trees, but it's actually kinda fun. A great change from the city."

She rolls her eyes. "That was rhetorical, Castle."

"I know."

He sees her lips quirk into a straight line, which he assumes is still better than the scowl directed in at him earlier. And now. It's back now.

"Okay, I get it. I shouldn't have volunteered you. I know that was wrong of me, and ignorant, and I'm sorry," he tells her. "And that you're doing this _just_ for Montgomery. I get that, too."

Her brows furrow, just for a second, as she pulls the strap tighter over her shoulder.

"An apology won't fix this, Castle," she says. Her voice is softer now. Less angry, but she still turns to leave, the click of her heels filling the empty hall as she heads for the door.

He watches her frame, the playful sway of her ponytail that contradicts that sharpness of her steps.

She turns over her shoulder at the last minute, mouth still pressed into a thin line.

"And I am _not_ sharing a tent with you," she calls.

He watches her push the door open, and keeps watching until her silhouette disappears behind a row of cars.

* * *

 **Hope you guys liked it. :)**


	6. Chapter 6

_**oxymoron**_

* * *

 _oxymoron:_ (noun) a figure of speech in which apparently contradictory terms appear in conjonction

* * *

 _It was my mother. We were supposed to go to dinner together—my mom, my dad and I. And she was going to meet us at the restaurant, but she never showed._

She tugs her sleeves down over her arms, and wraps her arms around her middle. Her nails dig into her sides, through the thick fabric of her jacket and the thin layer of her shirt. Tears sting at her eyes, burning behind her closed eyelids. She's tempted, _so very tempted,_ to curl into a ball and cry until she absolutely _has_ to go in there.

 _Two hours later, we went home, and there was a detective waiting for us, Detective Raglan. They found her body. She had been stabbed._

Her chest aches, her sides, at the base of her ribcage, burn with sharp pain as the image floods her mind, overwhelms her. That picture she forced them to show her, of her mother's body splayed out in the dirty alleyway, blood staining her clothes and the gravel around her. Her mother's shirt had been white, and looking at the picture, you could see exactly where the bloodstains originated. At her sides. Near her kidneys. Random stabs her her sides and abdomen.

It looked like exactly what the cops were telling her it was. But it didn't.

 _She still had her money. And it wasn't a sexual assault, either. They attributed it to gang violence, a random wayward event. And the killer was never caught._

Nobody was ever caught. Nobody was ever questioned. Nobody ever looked.

Her fingers reach into the gap between her jacket and her shirt, clumsily grabbing at the piece of paper she slipped against her side on her way out this morning. It's slightly crumpled, folded down the middle. The thin, lined sheet that was once fresh and crisp now weak and stained with smudges of pencil led.

It's not an anecdote, not really. It's a story, in some crazy way. Simple as can be, but a story all the same. And it's based on real events. But it's not…

Her fingers drift over the lines of the paper, light as a feather as they trace the sharp lines of her shaky handwriting. It gets sloppy at the end, like it does on the last evaluation grids she fills out at the end of a day of correcting. But worse. Because she was crying when she wrote this. Teardrops stain the edge of the page in leaks of pink and blue.

 _It was my mother._ She traces the words with the pad of her thumb, actions so small, so slight. Her nail scrapes against the page. The friction between skin and paper feels like it burns the sensitive skin. Like a flame. Or the harsh scrape of a blade.

 _They found her body._ She traces those ones, too, as a tear falls from her cheek and makes the blue ink at the bottom of the page spread into an ugly blotch, a random shape, just as wayward as the violence that supposedly killed her mother. It reminds her of the blood stains, of the way thick red had stained the fabric in the worst of ways.

 _She had been stabbed._ There's a pang in her side, a horrible, phantom pain and she doesn't want to imagine how much pain her mom was in. Can't. Not today, not like she has before.

She has to work. She has to move, get up and out of this car that suddenly seems to be a trap. She has to stop crying, and hope to whatever God might be listening that the red, puffiness of her eyes will fade before she has to teach. She has to stop shaking. Has to stop digging her nails into her skin too hard she's scared she'll draw blood. She has to _stop._

She never should have agreed to do this stupid _All That I Am_ project.

Her fingers clench around the fabric of her shirt, a quit, desperate grasp as her eyes squeeze shut and her teeth grind and tears leak down her cheeks despite her best efforts to stop them.

And then, before she can fall back into a shaking, crying heap in the driver's seat of her car, she shoves the door open with a sharp shove and climbs out, reaching blindly for the leather straps of her bag. She shoves it closed with her fist, the sound booming, piercing. And she heads for the door.

She stops in her classroom, drops her bag onto the floor and then darts into the staff bathroom, locking the door behind her with a slight flick of her wrist. Her gaze bypasses the mirror, and fall to the sink and her hands fumble to turn the cold water on, to wipe it across her face, over her cheeks and under her eyes and over the bridge of her nose, even though no amount of cold water will hide the evidence of her tears.

Her fingers curl around the edges of the sink, cold water still running, as her eyes slide from the drain to the mirror that reflects her image. Her makeup is only slightly smeared—and she silently thanks whoever invented waterproof makeup—but she still looks like a mess. A pitiful mess.

Her eyes are still rimmed red, her cheeks tinted a faint shade of pink. Her teeth are clenched tightly, lips curled into a slight frown. There's probably only about ten minutes before class starts, and she knows there's no way she's going to be able to hide this. Hide her tears. Hide her breakdown.

But she has to work.

She opens the door slowly, pokes her head out and then the rest of her body, pulling it closed behind her slowly. Silently. Like this is some kind of twisted walk of shame.

The twisting in her gut at the idea of being _caught_ makes her think it just might be.

A quick glance at the clock tells her there's only seven minutes until the first bell, until she should be standing outside her door with a smile on her face, greeting students and wishing them a good day—a good week—like she does every morning. As though her week is off to a good start. As though she's actually glad to see them, to be here on any given Monday morning.

As though she doesn't want to be anywhere but here. Preferably curled up in her bed, trying to sleep away the ache in her chest.

She swallows back a sigh, knows wallowing in her pain won't do her any good.

She turns the corner towards her classroom, blinking to focus her gaze on what should be a white brick wall, but is actually _him._ Standing there, just outside her door, two cups of coffee in hand. His eyes widen slightly as they sweep over her body, from where her face is still red from crying to where her fingers are curled tightly around the hem of her jacket.

 _Fuck._ She can't deal with him right now.

It probably makes the whole situation worse, will probably leave him wondering what the hell is wrong with her, maybe have him try to get it out of her later, over lunch. But she darts away, back around the corner where he can't see her. Her skull presses back against the wall, her teeth almost cutting through her lip.

She can't deal with him. Not now. Not today.

She can't avoid him forever, either.

The bell rings, the sound echoing through the halls, sharp as it reaches her ears and scares her with all that it means. Her face still feels puffy, her lip still wants to quiver. She still wants to go home and curl up in a ball and _cry_ and forget about Castle and her students and _everything_.

But she pushes herself off the wall with one hand, the other smoothing over her stomach, wiping at he cheeks even though they're still dry. She heads for her classroom, finds it still empty, and takes a seat at her desk.

Sitting in front of her is one of the cups of coffee Castle was holding, with another note.

 _You'll be okay._

Just that. So simple, it reminds her of something her therapist would tell her.

But there's a twisting her chest that's followed by some relief that tells her she might just believe him.

* * *

He tries not to watch her, tries not to invade her privacy.

But he sees her escape between the first two periods, her fingers white around the fabric of her jacket, shoulders square and tense. And he sees her return, eyes a little red, a little less mascara, even more tense, even more upset. He sees her emerge from her classroom with the coffee he made her in hand, and a slight, thankful smile gracing her lips.

First period was bad, but second period is a little better. He's less distracted. Less scared. He can still see the way she was shaking. The white of her bottom lip and the red rim around her eyes. He remembers the way she ran from him just as much as he remembers the way his heart clenched when he saw her.

His mind—his _stupid_ writer brain—keeps creating worst case scenarios. Everything from a bad break up that's left her shaken to a full blown panic disorder or horrible depression. And though images of her have clouded his mind on multiple occasions, these are by far the worst.

Beckett—no, _Kate_ —curled up in a ball all night and crying into her knees. Kate with her hand pressed against her chest as she gasps for breath, years heavy in her eyes and rolling down her cheeks, staining her panic-stricken face. Kate, _oh God,_ letting a sleeping pill slip into her palm, and debating taking a few others just to end the pain, the suffering.

And then he pictures that smile, as small as it was, and feels his heart rate slow, his fists loosen and the need to see her, to make sure she's okay, fade.

Lunch rolls around and his students leave. He reaches into his bag and pulls out the container of fried rice he brought for himself. He turns it upside down in his hand, switches it from one hand to the other, throwing it back and forth until the need to go barge into her classroom and make sure she's not crying again fades.

He warms up the rice in the lounge's microwave, uses the few free minutes to make her another coffee. She seems to like them. At the very least, she hasn't killed him, or even screamed at him, for giving her one every chance he gets.

The rice in one hand, the coffee in the other, he heads back down the hall. He knocks on her door quietly with the back of his hand. He can see her through the window, sitting at her computer desk. The styrofoam cup of soup is sitting to her right, unopened, and her face is buried in her hands.

She looks up slowly at his knock, and though she doesn't smile, she doesn't frown either. Instead, she sits back in her chair, motions with a crook of her fingers for him to come in before letting her hand fall into her lap. Finally, her lips quirks up just a bit and, _oh,_ he'll have to memorize that look, too.

"I brought you coffee," he announces.

Her eye roll is adorable. "Do you really feel the need to bring me coffee all the time?" she asks. The quiet lilt in her voice makes him smile.

"I have to apologize somehow," he shrugs.

"Ah, and you've figured out that the best way to get a coffee addict such as me to forgive you," she says.

She sounds happy, he notes. Happy with just a hint of underlying pain and sadness and the memory of whatever had her escaping to the bathroom and sobbing into her hands this morning.

The image comes and goes, as the weight of the mug lifts from his hand and he blinks to see her take the first sip. She sets the dark blue mug next to the empty white one from this morning, her fingers lingering where they're curled around its warmth, and her gaze flicks up to his.

"Thank you," she whispers, "for the coffee this morning…and the note. It helped."

The relief that comes with his exhale makes it seem like he's been holding his breath since he first wrote the words this morning. Since he first saw her with red-rimmed eyes and tearstained cheeks.

Cheeks that are now adorably pink.

"I'm glad," he whispers. He pulls a chair out from behind one of the desks and drops into it carefully. "If you want to talk about it, I'm an objective third party."

"You tried to sweet talk me into sharing a tent with you last week. I'd hardly call you objective," she scoffs.

"I'm still here if you need to talk, though," he mumbles.

Her eyes dart to the coffee cup, the pink tinge of her cheeks growing darker. "I don't want to talk about it, Castle," she whispers. "I really just want to forget it ever happened."

His mind once again travels to the image of her walking down the hallway, crying, hurt, looking more broken than he ever imagined she was. Whether that's what she wants to forget, or what caused it, he doesn't know. But he wouldn't mind forgetting, either, if only so his mind will stop creating worst-case scenarios.

So he can focus on the way her cheeks turn pink when she smiles. And on the fact that she lets him witness it.

"You know what helps me forget?" he suggests. She turns to look at him, and though her smile is gone, her cheeks are still pink, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. He holds up the container of rice in his hand. "Good food."

She frowns. "I'm not taking your food, Castle."

"Not taking my food. Not sharing my tent. This friendship seems to be at a standstill," he counters, adding a dramatic eye roll for good measures. "Come on, Beckett. I'm offering. We'll trade. You take the rice, I'll take your soup in a cup."

She ends up taking the deal, throwing her soup cup at him as he slides the rice onto the desk in front of her. And then she follows him into the lounge, warms up the rice again as he pours boiling water into the cup of dry noodles and veggies. He turns to see her sitting in the chair in front of the microwave, as he drops into the chair right in front of him.

He watches as she takes the first bite. Her eyes fall closed, and she lets out a hum around her fork and _God,_ he should not find that hot.

He scoops a spoonful of half-cooked noodles into his mouth in an effort to disguise it.

And then he chokes around definitely not al dente pasta and yet to be dissolved seasoning, sputtering some off the broth onto the back of his hand.

It makes her laugh, though, so he doesn't mind it all that much. He eventually joins her in laughter, though, after swallowing the disgusting bite

"This takes like my mother's cooking," he tells her.

She laughs again, her hand pressed against her mouth. "You're mother can't cook?"

"Yours can?"

She stops laughing so quickly that the switch almost gives him whiplash, and he's left blinking at her from across the table as she stares silently into the container of rice.

"She could," she murmurs eventually, the words so soft he almost misses them. "But she…passed away…years ago."

"Oh." He frowns. "I'm…sorry."

She looks up, offers a half-hearted smile, and then back down.

She only eats half the rice, and doesn't say a word for the rest of lunch and he realizes, as she walks away with shoulders once again tense and her head tilted down, that her mother had to do with what happened this morning.

And suddenly he wishes he had just let her be. At least then he wouldn't have reminded her of the very thing that hurts her more than anything else.

* * *

Five minutes until class starts and she's on the verge of tears again, her lower lip pulled between her teeth, fingers curled into fists. Her hand shakes as she wraps it around the doorknob, her arm weak as she tugs the door open, slips inside, and then slams it shut behind her.

 _She passed away_. She's dead. Her mother is dead and she was trying to forget _that_ and it was one stupid question with one really crappy answer.

 _They found her body. She had been stabbed. The killer was never caught._

She sucks in a stuttering, shaky breath, feels her chest ache as she presses the heel of her hand against her sternum. Her eyes sting with the need to cry. Her hand grasps at the back of her chair, elbow locking painfully as she leans on it. As she swallows back the lump in her throat.

The bell rings in the distance, just loud enough for the sound to register. She releases the back of the chair slowly, sinks down onto the seat instead. Her fingers curl into her palm, nails digging into her skin. She wants the warmth of a coffee cup and the comfort that brings. Or the worn spine of her favorite book as the familiar wear of the pages.

All she gets is a classroom full of students, though. Full of teenagers who don't care about her, who don't understand how hard it is to lose someone or how soothing the small things can be. A classroom full of people who take everything for granted, whose illusions on life are those she has to maintain with fake smiles, but fix with rules they never follow.

Oh, how she loves being a teacher on days like today.

The second bell rings and she turns to see her third period students all sitting around at and on their desks. They're chit-chatting easily, smiling and talking and having a great time. She remembers those days, the easy ones, when her biggest issue was balancing a life of maintaining good grades with the rebel lifestyle she adopted…and the way her mother would lecture her on what was truly important.

Sometimes she would give anything to have _those_ problems back.

Her hands press against the surface of her desk, and she pushes herself into a standing position. She tugs on the hem of her jacket, pulls it tightly around her body. Her eyes still burn, still sting, and, _God,_ she cannot cry. She _can't_ cry right now.

So she slams her hand against her desk, hard enough for it to hurt, loud enough for it to gain her students' attention. They turn to her with wide eyes, falling into their chairs and crossing their arms over their desks.

"Good afternoon," she greets. Her voice sounds scratchy. Thick with emotion. With pain. She swallows it all back, once, twice to make sure. "I have some good news for you guys." She takes a deep breath, forces the memory of her anecdote out of her head. "The plan was for me to present my _All That I Am_ project today, so you guys could do some final touch-ups on yours tonight and hand them in tomorrow. But since I've been busy—" _crying myself to sleep because of this stupid project I never should have agreed to_ "—I'm pushing the end of the project to Wednesday after spring break, giving you guys two extra weeks."

The class bursts out in smiles and happy chatter—which she totally expected because what teenager doesn't want extra time to do their homework? —as her heart pounds in her chest.

 _They found her body. She had been stabbed. The killer was never caught._

Her thumb drifts across her stinging palm, presses against where the surface of the desk has her aching skin still tinted red. It's enough. Just enough to distract her from the ache in her chest.

She looks back up, tells her students to grab a copy of the books sitting on the counter, gives them a page number and orders to read the story that starts on that page and then answer the questions that accompany it. She listens as her students groan and grumble and make their way between desks as slowly as they possibly can, grabbing the book and returning to their places at a snail's pace.

And then she drops back into her chair, spreads her fingers over the keyboard and stares at the blank screen of her computer for too long.

Her fingers type the words without her permission. _They found her body. She had been stabbed. The killer was never caught._ Her eyes follow the sharp lines and curls of every letter, from left to right on the screen until they burn and sting again and there's a lump in her chest that she doesn't think will ever truly go away.

And with a hand once again pressed against her sternum, her gaze darts from the computer screen in front of her to the ceramic elephants she hides behind it, in the gap between her screen and the wall and the desktop. They were her mother's, a family of elephants that her mom loved so much. That sat on her mother's desk at the law firm for years, and she remembers loving them when she was little.

Her hand drifts past the bottom of the screen, trace the details on the elephant she can see best.

The bell ringing to announce the end of third period catches her off guard, and though most of her students slam their books shut and leave them in disarray on the counter, she notices a few worried glances shot her way as some of the quieter ones leave. Her hand falls from where it's resting on the elephant's back, her eyes drifting to where the words she hates have faded to black, to nothing.

There's a lump in her throat. She swallows it thickly. And then repeats the last fifty minutes with her last class of the day, watching the seconds tick by as she waits for this hellish day to end.

As she waits for the chance to leave this room, to go home and take a bath and cry until the hot water turns cold.

And eventually, that comes. The bell to end the day rings and she jumps out of her seat almost as quickly as her students. There's a pile of projects she has to grade sitting on the counter, and pages for tomorrow's lesson that need to be photocopied. But they can wait.

The stinging behind her eyes is ever-present. She _needs_ to cry.

She needs to leave.

So when Castle catches her in the hallway, she almost breaks down.

"What do you want?"

His answer catches her off guard.

"I just want to help you, Beckett."

Her arm is pressed against her locker, her forehead falling against it.

"Today was a hard day," he whispers. "I don't know why, and I know you don't want to talk about it. I'm not asking you to. I just want…" He sighs. It's loud and heavy and she's actually tempted to turn to face him. But she doesn't. She just lets him keep talking. "I know you're still mad at me. And I get it. Right now I'm actually kind of upset with myself. But…"

She sucks in a breath, cold as it washes over her lips. "But what, Castle?"

"But I don't know if you have anyone to talk to, or anyone to support you when you go home tonight, so I figured I would give you my advice now. You don't have to take it. I don't expect you to." He takes another deep breath. "But I can't, in good conscience, just let you go home without at least trying to help."

She nods against her arm, offering him silent permission to keep going.

She probably won't take his advice. She knows that. Knows that listening to him is likely pointless. But her heart is beating a little less painfully

It's nice to know somebody cares.

"I think you want to go home and cry, probably skip dinner and just…cry until you fall asleep."

She does.

"But I think that would only make things worse," he continues. "I… You don't have to listen to me, but I think you should do something that makes you happy. Order pizza, or chinese, or thai or whatever your favorite take-out is, and just watch your favorite movie or TV show. Or read a book. Or call a friend. Or–"

"I get it," she interrupts.

He clamps his mouth shut, the sound of his teeth clinking together actually drawing a laugh from her chest.

"I get it, Castle. And I'll…think about it."

He's silent for a moment, and then he whispers so softly she barely hears him, "Okay. Goodnight, Beckett." And then his footsteps boom through the otherwise silent hallway, echoing until he's gone.

She whispers the words once he's out of earshot, her eyes pressed against her arm, the pressure keeping the tears at bay.

"Thank you."

* * *

She ends up falling asleep on the couch, an open pizza box on the coffee table in front of her, and the theme song for Nebula-9 playing over and over again from the DVD's main menu.

* * *

 **I am so sorry for the delay in getting this chapter for her. Between a flare up on my tendinitis and my nephew's baptism (guess who's Godmother 3) I've been busy and unable to write much. I hope it was worth the wait, though.**


	7. Chapter 7

_**oxymoron**_

* * *

 _oxymoron:_ (noun) a figure of speech in which apparently contradictory terms appear in conjunction

* * *

She usually wakes up at six. The alarm she sets on her phone blares through the room, the default series of notes dragging her from sleep easily, as her fingers hit the off button, her other hand curling around the edge of her comforter and throwing it off her stomach with ease.

It never bothers her, never has. The habit of getting up early has been with her since grade school, continued through high school—despite the nights she spent up late—and she never gave it up when she went to Stanford. The dark days came with sleepless nights and days, coffee addiction and classes at NYU and by the time she eventually started teaching, working on little sleep was easy.

Waking up at six has never bothered her.

Waking up at four, on the other hand, does.

Her clumsy fingers find the snooze button the first time, but she still forces her eyes open, ignoring the burn of fatigue. The pillow is soft, comfy under her cheek. The bed is warm, the weight of the blanket, soothing, the way it's bunched up at her stomach, familiar and sweet and after the past few days the last thing she wants to do is leave this cocoon she loves so much.

But when the alarm goes off again, that familiar song playing through the room, the device vibrating on the nightstand, her finger presses against the off button, thumb swiping across the screen. She pushes the comforter off her, flings it off her abdomen, kicks it off her legs weakly and rolls onto her side.

She wants to sleep. Wants to bury her head back in the pillow and pull the comforter back over her body, let its warmth drag her back to a world of black where dreams fade into nothingness and reality is non-existent. Where the threat of her alarm is now gone, and the threat of everything else in her life—camping, teenagers, _feelings_ —only part of the reality she becomes blissfully unaware of.

But she's awake now. The few minutes she's given herself have allowed her eyes to open, to adjust to the dark. Her body no longer sinks into the mattress limply, but tenses at the knees and elbows, cracks as she forces movement from her muscles. Reality seeps back into her mind, the threats, gone with sleep, ever-present in consciousness.

Camping. Teenagers. Feelings. _Castle._

Fuck.

Her feet hit the cool hardwood floor, head spinning as she forces herself to stand, to walk. Her phone falls onto her bed, sinks into the pillow as she heads towards her dresser, on which her outfit for today already sits. She grabs the pile quickly, lets her hand fall against her thigh.

A shower. That's what she needs. A nice, warm shower to wake her up and loosen the tight muscles of her shoulders, to let her fingers massage the ache from her head and the sweet scent of cherries coat her skin, wash away the remnants of sleep and the lingering pain from her breakdown.

Okay, so maybe showers aren't that poetic, but she does climb out of the tub feeling limber and refreshed and awake and that's so much better than she did before.

She pulls on a pair of yoga pants that look enough like her usual work pants to maintain her air of authority over ther students and to demand respect from Castle, but are comfortable enough to wear camping, and for the six hour bus ride ahead of her—which she keeps telling herself won't be that bad because being locked in a bus with forty teenangers and Castle won't be nearly as horrible as it is in her mind.

She's still convinced it's going to be a _long_ bus ride.

Her travel mug is warm in her hand, the leftover Thai food she warmed up and ate for breakfast still heavy in her stomach when she pushes her car door open and steps out into the school parking lot, lit up only by sparse lampposts and the light from the building.

She reaches back into her car and slings her duffel bag over her shoulder, shoves the door closed with a bump of her hip. The parking lot is practically empty, only the staff parking full with a rainbow of cars she assumes belong to her fellow chaperones. She recognizes Castle's from the odd times they've arrived at approximately the same time.

The smile that spreads across her face when she notices the stick figures in the back window is purely instinctual and completely involuntary and she forces it away as she soon as she realizes she's smiling. Because of _Castle._

That can't happen again. Especially not this week. When he can see her, see through her in that creepy way that makes her stomach flood with butterflies and her mind stupidly decide to listen to him.

She shakes that thought from her head as her palm presses against the school's cold metal door, shoves it open as she steps into the building. The hallways are bright, too bright for her head, that pounds with the knowledge that it's not even five a.m. and that it should not be this bright anywhere.

The school gym's walls have cheap bristol board posters hanging indicating the separate trips. Only a handful of students are here, but pretty much all the teachers are here, leaning against walls, their fatigue evident in their posture, in the stunning lack of conversation.

Castle is sitting against the wall, right under the poster that indicates the ninth grade camping trip. His head is dipped down towards his phone, but his eyes are half-closed, his arm almost limp, elbow pressed against his thigh.

There's a comment about his inability to handle being up so early swirling somewhere in the back of her mind, but when she sways on her feet only to steady herself and realize she's still standing in the middle of the gym's double doors...

Yeah, she's not one to talk.

A student brushes past her, holding an oversized pillow tightly against her chest. She ends up following the young girl into the room, turns to the left to eventually find herself leaning against the wall, her feet pressed together a little too close to Castle's hip.

"Hi," she greets.

He jumps, phone dropping onto the floor and— _what was that comment about him not being able to handle a four a.m. wake up call?_

It's not, though. Fading from any deep, dark part of her brain and all she manages is a soft laugh at his expense.

"Good morning," he returns, his voice chipper, all the while slightly weighed down by fatigue and _oh_ that should not be attractive in anyway.

It's because it's early. And her judgement is skewed. That's definitely why.

Because she could not possibly be attracted to Richard Castle because of the way he says _good morning._ Just… _no._

And yet, when she takes the aisle seat over the window seat and he makes a stupid comment about how it's because _she's worried she'll be overwhelmed, stuck so close to him,_ she can't exactly deny it.

Because it's early, of course.

* * *

She's asleep.

He's sitting in his slightly too small bus seat, phone balanced in his right hand, thumb swiping across the screen and sending brightly colored birds flying and Kate Beckett is asleep.

But not just asleep.

She's asleep and _leaning against him._

Her head, always held high, chin tilted upwards in a silent show of pride and a clear demand for respect, is resting on his shoulder, neck limp and jaw dropped slightly open. Her legs have fallen open, her knee pressed against the outside of his thigh. And her hair, _oh,_ her hair smells like cherries and the tiny strands, free of her ponytail, are brushing against his neck and the underside of his jaw.

Her hand, though, well that just had to fall onto his thigh, just a little—okay, maybe more than a little—too high for comfort and it has him wanting to squirm in her seat and has his mind drifting to thoughts of the stairwell and the kiss that wasn't, but has played out so many times in his fantasies and on secret documents on his computer and, _oh,_ her hand…

Moving her hand would be a good idea. A very good idea. He's pretty sure moving all of her, maybe gently pushing her back into her seat so she's not draped over him, would be a very good idea. Because she's probably going to slap him. Or accuse him of making her snuggle with him. Or avoid him for the next three days, despite the fact that they do have a camping trip to chaperone together.

He doesn't want that to happen—option A, B or C.

He also _really_ doesn't want to move her.

Besides, isn't the gentleman thing to do in this situation to just sit still and not move until she wakes up? And then let her pull away without teasing her, offering her only the kind of small smile she rarely, but oh so beautifully offers him.

Yes. _Yes._ That's what he'll do.

He does end up moving her hand from his leg to hers, though. If only to avoid ruining his gentleman act.

Then he tears his gaze away from the hair pulled tight over the top of her head and the perfect slope of her nose and the subtle fluttering of her eyelashes as she dreams and forces his eyes back onto the level of _Angry Birds_ he is determined to win.

Well, maybe his new goal should be to just focus on his phone. Because she shifts slightly, just enough for her hair to tickle his chin and for the scent of cherries to waft up again and her body presses tighter against his side, head nuzzling deeper into the crook of his neck.

His phone falls onto his thigh as he curls his fingers into a fist and presses his hand against the bus' metal wall. And though his mind is telling him it's a bad idea, he turns his head to look down at her again.

Her hair is draped over her shoulder now, the elastic coming loose. Some of the shorter strands—the ones that occasionally frame her features, accentuate the height of her cheekbones—have fallen free, and are draped over her face, down over her cheek to the sharp corner of her jaw.

Her mouth is closed now, chin pressed against the curve where his arm meets his shoulder. Her lips, pressed together tightly, are curled into the slightest hint of a smile.

She looks…innocent.

Beautiful as ever, even without the sky high heels and the perfectly tailored suits. Her makeup is lighter today, too, lacking the defined line of black that usually traces the limit of her lashes and the splash of pink added purposefully to her cheeks. Her hair isn't perfectly pinned up.

And she's asleep. She's innocent.

She's the he exact opposite of what he knows her to be, of the woman who cornered him in the stairwell, of the teacher who snaps her fingers and has students sliding their beloved phones into their pockets.

It's another layer to her, another aspect of the eternal mystery that is Kate Beckett. Innocence like he never imagined, but pure and unmistakable as she dreams of who knows what, lets the world see her without her armor.

Why was he trying to focus on something else again?

It might be creepy, it might be slightly wrong and he knows that she would probably slap him or twist his ear or _something_ if she were to catch him. But she's beautiful, and more puzzling than any level of _Angry Birds_ could ever be.

He watches her sleep, watches the steady rise of fall of her chest and the unpredictable twitches of her eyelids until she stirs against him and he has to look away.

She pulls her head off his shoulder slowly, soft strands of hair brushing over the side of her face as she wipes away fatigue and he slowly turns to face her. To pretend he hasn't been watching for the past…it must have been at least an hour.

"Good morning, sleeping beauty," he whispers.

Her cheeks turn pink as her elbow jabs him between his ribs.

But, _oh,_ the image of her sleeping will forever be engrained in his memory.

* * *

When she was a little girl, her family would travel upstate to a cabin they owned. Her parents would always coordinate their time off, and then, for one week in July and another in August, they would strap her into the backseat of the car with the promise of a fun weekend away from the city, and her memory would always bring her back to the magical world of trees and wildflowers and freedom that she loved so much.

It wasn't super extravagant, by no means a mansion. The house was actually pretty small, but the land was widespread and beautiful. A field of grass behind the house. A labyrinth of trees to disappear into. A lake they shared with the neighbor family, her father's tiny little fishing boat floating by a dock she helped him build.

She used to run through the grass barefoot, when it was dry and crumpled beneath her weight and when it was wet and she went back inside with muddy ankles and the soles of her feet stained green and her mom would have to sit her on the bathroom vanity and scrub the stains away.

She learned to swim in the lake, her dad standing where the water reached his chest, her mom lingering a little closer to shore. She would swim back and forth as her mom encouraged her with soft words that would barely reach her ears over the adrenaline of paddling through the waves. And when she succeeded, her dad would wrap his arms around her and spin her around, making waves ripple around them.

She would hike through the forest with her mom, head held high. Her mom always carried a novel with her when they went hiking, a big, thick book that looked impossible to read. She would carry her own book, a thin little thing she would carry under her arm as her fingers plucked at pieces of tree bark and blades of grass. And when they got to their destination, a clearing shaded by the leaves overhead, she would sit down next to her mom and they would both read their books.

She can still smell her mom's cherry scented perfume, can still feel the way her mom's arms would hold her tightly as she carried her back to the house.

And it comes rushing back to her as she reaches down for the small bag she brought with her for the bus ride and sits back up to see the grassy clearing where they'll be setting up camp, the beach on the other side of the bus and the forest that extends around them.

It's too familiar. It's too much.

"Come on, Beckett. I have to pee."

And he's here with her.

She turns to him quickly, forces a smile to come across her face as he squirms in his seat like a child. "You do realize there's a bathroom in the bus. You could have gone any time."

"Nuh uh." He shakes his head, crosses his arms, his chin tilting upwards and he still reminds her of a child. "I don't do bus bathrooms, Beckett. They are dis-gus- _ting_."

Well, she can't deny that one.

She turns back to the students the aisle, lets the last of the students out in front of her before climbing out of her seat and hopping off the bus. Her feet hit the grass, and she's just glad that her running shoes keep the blades of grass from slipping between her toes like they did when she was little.

The bus driver starts opening the compartments below the cabin and Castle leads a group of students to the nearby community bathrooms with absolutely no ulterior motives. The remaining students have taken to groaning about the lack of cell reception and wi-fi and there's something in the back of her mind telling her she should say _something_ but there doesn't really seem to be anything to say.

"Are we gonna unload the bus?" calls Castle when he comes bounding back.

She blinks at nothing, and then turns to look at the completely open compartments. They're mostly filled with duffel bags and suitcases, the first one full of the school-provided tents.

"Yeah, I guess." She turns towards the group behind her, claps her hands together to get the students' attention. "First things first, guys. I want each of you to retrieve your bag and then one tent per pair."

The students part, make their way behind her to get their things from the bus and soon enough she's left staring at the row of trees that lines the grass clearing, and into the abyss of the forest that look eternal from where she's standing.

" _Are we lost, Mommy?"_

" _No, Katie-Bug. We're almost there, I promise. Do you still have your book?"_

" _Mhmm. You still got yours?"_

" _Of course I do, Baby. Okay, we're right here. You ready for your surprise?"_

There had been a tiny spot of light in the middle of the clearing the day, the sun still high in the early afternoon. Her mom had laid out a blanket that time, too. And there was a little table in the shade with two cups of lemonade on it. She remembers her gasp, the pure excitement that only a child can get out of something so simple.

Something brushes over her shoulder, a gentle touch from her arm to her neck and she turns to see Castle standing there, his bag and tent slung over one shoulder. She spots her own bag hanging from the other.

"You okay?" he asks.

She nods. "Yeah. Just…" _I used to go camping with my parents. But now my mom is dead._ "It's beautiful out here. So different from the city."

He smiles. "I know. I always love leaving the city, seeing the world like this. I feel like this is how things are meant to be seen, without everything we added."

Though she can still see the ghostly image of her mom in the back of her mind, she smiles.

"Now, you should go get your tent," he adds.

She chuckles, starts heading for the bus and then turns back towards him. "What, Castle? Already given up on getting me to share a tent with you?"

His jaw drops, just a bit, as he sputters out what may or may not be a response.

And she heads to the bus to get her tent.

* * *

He watches her walk away, and though the smirk that had her features lit up only moments ago is still present in the back of his mind, he recognizes that tenseness he can see in her shoulders. It's just like it was on Monday, the same lock to her frame, the same sharp steps.

Now he has to figure out how to make her feel better.

And how to get her to share a tent with him, because if that wasn't an invitation to at least try…

Yeah, it was totally an invitation to at least try and get her into his tent so he can see the innocence spread across her sleeping face again.

He turns away when she turns back towards him, tent bag slung over her shoulder as she scans the clearing for somewhere to pitch it. Most of the students are already hard at work on theirs, most of the girls reading the instructions—at least somewhat—while the guys hold the nylon roof up in confusion, or start messing with the poles.

"We should stay closer to the beach, right? Closer to the road?" she suggests.

He looks up to find her suddenly standing next to him, a small smile playing at her lips.

"Uh, yeah, I guess that would make sense," he answers. "Although, it's not like their kindergarteners. I doubt they're going to try and escape in the middle of the night." He bumps his shoulder against hers. "Plus, being separate from the students will allow us some privacy."

She rolls her eyes, playful this time rather than purely annoyed and _oh_ he likes that eyeroll even more than he likes the other one. "Just for that," she says, "I'm going to pitch my tent in the middle of the group."

"Yeah, right. You hate having to be social with the students. You would never purposefully park yourself in the middle of them, not even to get away from me."

Her face falls, just a bit.

Well, he obviously said the wrong thing.

"I don't hate the students, Castle. I simply think it's important to maintain distance between myself and the students I teach," she says. "I try to keep it professional."

She tries to walk away. He catches her fingers with him before she can.

"I know, Beckett," he tells her. "I get it. I wasn't trying to insult you."

He expects a quippy response, a comment about not thinking before he speaks or about how she thought authors put more thought into their words.

But it never comes.

Because she's staring down at their hands, at where his fingers are curled gently around hers, at where his thumb is subconsciously tracing circles over her skin.

He stops the motion of his thumb, and then drops her hand so it tumbles back against her thigh and her duffel bag almost falls to the ground.

"So, uh, yeah. That's… It wasn't my intention to upset you."

She smiles, that shy little smile that he loves so much. "Okay," she whispers. "Do you, uh, want help pitching your tent?" she offers.

He smiles. "If you're offering."

And soon enough she's kneeling on the grass, the instructions for his tent spread open on her thighs as he pulls the different components out of the tight tent bag, dropping the strings and pegs and poles and nylon body onto the ground around them as she reads.

"Have you done this before?" she asks softly.

He looks up at her, smiles. "Yeah. I bought this tent for last year's trip," he tells her. "And I used to go, uh, sorta camping with Alexis behind the house in the Hamptons. You know, give her a taste of the more authentic, outside of New York city life. We would go down to the beach and make a fire on the sand and roast marshmallows. She used to love it."

He blinks the memories away, forces them down before he can get lost in the pain of knowing that Alexis is growing up, that in two years his baby bird will be graduating and then off to college and…

"Ms. Beckett, Mr. Castle?"

He blinks again, looks up to find one of their students standing there. A quiet girl with the nylon body of her tent clenched in her hands.

"Yeah?"

"There's a hole in our tent," she says, motioning down to the nylon body and, well, he probably should have noticed the gaping hole in it earlier, but…

How does a tent even get a hole like that in it?

He's about to ask if there's another one on the bus when Kate reaches to the side, her fingers curling around the round bag of her own tent.

"Here," she tells Holly. "You guys can take mine."

Holly bounces on her toes, takes the tent from Beckett and goes off running back to where her partner must be waiting we the other parts of the broken tent.

"You know there's no extra tents, right?" he asks once Holly is gone.

Beckett turns to him, caramel ponytail whipping out behind her head as she shoots him a glare as sharp as daggers.

"I am _not_ sharing a tent with you, Castle."

But there are no extra tents. The bus is gone. And hers has a whole in it so big that he's fairly certain it can't even be put up anymore.

"What are you going to do, then? Sleep outside?"

She keeps glaring, a scowl tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Oh, they are definitely going to end up sharing a tent.

* * *

 **I am _soooo_ sorry for the delay in getting this chapter up. My laptop got a virus and crashed, and then I got a super bad cold. But, hey, tehy're starting their camping trip.**

 **And totally sharing a tent. ;)**

 **(Also, this chapter was not beta'd. I apologize profusely for any typos).**


	8. Chapter 8

_**oxymoron**_

* * *

 _oxymoron:_ (noun) a figure of speech in which apparently contradictory terms appear in conjunction

* * *

It's only thirty minutes later and her head pounds with it, with echoes of incessant teenage whining about phone reception and wi-fi and everything else that's wrong with this beautiful part of the woods. It's loud and annoying and never seems to fade, still spouted from the mouths of her students, repeated endlessly as it pounds against the inside of her skull.

The sun is too high now, too hot, in a natural way that is all to strange to her city skin. While the budding leaves on the trees offer a semblance of shade, the lack of buzzing energy and the wall the forest poses against any semblance of a breeze makes the air feel still. The proximity of the lake makes it feel thick with humidity that even the island of Manhattan doesn't seem to have.

It's hot and thick and she can feel the sweat as it forms on her forehead, dampens her hairline and when Castle suggests they make a fire to start lunch, part of her screams _no._ Her fingers curl into the fabric of her pants, itching to pull the burning black up and over her knees.

But another kid groans about how they _need_ to check their snapchat and she turns towards the firepit, shrugs her shoulders at Castle even though her gaze isn't meeting his.

Suddenly, the heat of the fire seems more appealing than the whining that reverberates in her head, makes the ache intensify where it roots in her temple.

"Yeah? You're hungry?" he asks, and her eyes snap up to his.

He's wearing shorts now, and his hands are buried deep in his pockets. The light blue shirt he was wearing this morning is still tight around his shoulders. It's a step down from his usual suit, the trousers that are always tailored perfectly and the shirts that bring out either his eyes or skintone.

 _Oh,_ the sun must be getting to her. The heat. It was early and now it's hot and that's why her mind keeps inexplicably going _there,_ where it's _never_ allowed to go.

Her eyes snap closed, and open again and he's still looking down at her, eyes wide with innocent curiosity. "Yeah," she shrugs. "I guess I could eat."

Smiling, he claps his hands together, rocking back on his heels. "Okay, then, I'll get the fire started, you get the food? We'll get these kids to stop thinking about their phones," he says. A little too happy. A little too convinced.

And, yeah, she really doesn't think getting their minds off their phones will happen this weekend, no matter how much food they offer. It's against teenage nature.

But she finds herself pushing herself up and off the log, nodding her head as she brushes past him and towards the bus that lingers on the outskirts of the lot.

Her fingers curl around the cold metal handle of one of the bus' compartments and she tugs the door open, plunging her hand into the too hot, too humid space beneath the cab. The air is even thicker in there than it is outside, trapped and still as she reaches the first cooler's handle and drags it to the edge.

Hot dogs sit on top of it, piles of buns and sausages surrounded by bags worth of ice. She dips her fingers into the cold water first, drags them across her forehead where the layer of sweat has thickened. It drips down, into the dip at the bridge of her nose. Sweet in its icy cold.

She reaches for the top few packs of sausage, wedges them under her arms and into the crooks of her elbows, and then reaches down again for the bags of buns. The cold coats her arms, from fingertips to funny bone, ice cubes caught between her fingers. She pops one into her mouth before knocking the cooler's lid closed.

She turns around, rolls on her heel like she does everyday and _oh,_ he's standing right there, pieces of wood balanced in both his arms and that shirt does absolutely nothing to hide the bulging muscles of his biceps. The all too attractive ones that she really didn't expect and _how does he hide that under his suits?_

"Everything okay, Beckett?"

 _Right._

"Uh, yeah," she mumbles, though it must be too quiet for him to hear. "Hot dogs okay?"

He smiles, nods his head, and turns back towards the firepit, dropping the wood at his feet.

She's sitting back down on the log she's silently claimed as hers again when he starts the fire. The paper seems like too much fun as he rips it to shreds and crumples it in his palm, laughing as he does. And the wood just has her mind going back to those arms that she really shouldn't be thinking about so much. And his face lights up with childlike glee—which she's begun to expect from him—as the flicker from the lighter burns the paper, the flame catching onto the wood.

Within minutes, the fire is blazing, flickering in the bright daytime light and crackling as it shoots embers into the air, the tiny orange specks fading from view only seconds later.

"Okay, so we just grill the weiners," he says, reaching for one of the packs that sits in the sand at her feet.

She slaps his hand away, watching the mock disgust that spreads across his face as he plucks it away.

"Nuh uh," she hums, waggling her finger at him, "I'm cooking."

"You cook?"

Her fingers have found the pack of sausages, her nails digging into the plastic when she looks up, sees his brows knit together in what can only be described as actual curiosity and not some mockery she would expect from him.

"Yeah, I cook," she shrugs. "And unlike you, I have the maturity to not play with fire of make spiders out of the _weiners_."

His jaw falls open, eyes wide all over again. "So the cup of soup every day thing, that's _voluntary?_ Why would anyone expose themselves to horrid pre-cooked noodles just for the sake of it?"

"Really? You're still teasing me for my soup cups?" She cocks her head to the side, crosses her arms over her chest.

"You have to admit it, Beckett. They're _disgusting_."

"They're practical. Like hot dogs."

He rolls his eyes at that, overly dramatic as always. "Whatever. You can cook."

So she does. He takes her spot on the log and watches as she rolls the sausages over the grill, watching the black char marks appear on them as they blister until cooked. And then she hands them off to him, lets him set each one into a bun as he sends a student to get the condiments.

The last weiner is cut into quarters at both ends and she rolls her eyes. "Spider?"

"Octopus," he answers. "And it's mine, so you can't tease me for it."

"I can tease you for it all I want," she quips, though she settles the _spider_ onto the grill and lets it begin cooking. "Now, what am I supposed to eat?"

He shoves a hot god in front of her. It's still warm, she notes. It must be the last one she cooked.

"I saved you one," he says, and when she trades spider weiner for hot dog, his smile is a little too bright.

* * *

Her shorts are way too short.

Really, he's positive that doesn't follow the school's dress code.

She's still wearing her shirt from this morning when she comes out of their tent after lunch, but the pants, which were definitely too heavy for this weather, are gone, replaced by a pair of shorts that probably don't quite qualify as booty shorts, but still… They cover her ass, but just barely and _fuck_ her legs seem to go on forever and _who thought it was a good idea for them to share a tent tonight?_

Oh, right. Him.

It was— _is_ —a really good idea, even though she's definitely going to kill him with those way too short shorts.

And yet she seems to see nothing wrong with it, walking up to him like nothing is off and like this isn't the first time he's seen any of her long, toned legs. She's casual about it, too, in an odd un-Beckett-like way. Like she's suddenly not all, _we're co-workers, sorta friends,_ anymore.

Which he's totally okay with, if that's the case. Totally, definitely okay with.

"When is that guide guy coming?" she asks, her hand flicking towards the hiking trail they were promised to be led down by a park employee.

He shrugs, swallows past the ball in his throat— _don't look at her legs, Castle._ "Soon, I guess."

She shrugs back at him, an elevation of her shoulder that has the fabric of her shirt drifting down and over it, dropping to rest at the top of her arm and _don't look._

He really can't look. Because seeing Beckett's legs and her shoulder in a matter of ten measly minutes is too much, her smile beautiful and happy and he can still see the image of her sleeping face, can still feel the way her breath drifted over his shoulder and this camping trip is going to kill him.

She walks away, though. Plops herself back down onto her log to wait.

The guide gets there twelve minutes later. Twelve minutes and forty-seven seconds according to his watch—it was the only thing keeping him from staring at her. The man has a booming loud voice and walks through the campground like it's his home, waving his arms around as he greets them and gets the students' unreachable full attention.

He goes through the safety measures— _have good shoes on, make sure you've put on bug spray_ —and then walks over to where Beckett is sitting on the log, motioning with a not at all subtle jerk of his wrist for him to join.

"I'll lead the group. I know these trails like the back of my hand. You guys can take up the rear, okay? Make sure we don't lose any of the kids," he says. "Oh, and by the way, my name's Kurt. I should've said that earlier."

He tells his name to the students, in his loud, booming voice and starts leading them up the trail.

It's clean, neat. The brush is all cut right where the tree roots fade into the dirt of the path. Only a few roots stick up through the dirt, a handful of big stones adding steps to their hike. There's blueberry bushes under the trees, surrounded by moss and blooming their tiny white flowers. Other bushes he doesn't recognize meld with them.

Kurt is spouting information about them like it's common knowledge, telling them about the trees and what kind they are and the bushes and where they're native from and the students all seem to be listening. And Beckett… Well, he can see her face, the way her eyes dart to the trees and up the the leaves and she's hanging onto every single word.

The city girl, the English teacher, extremely fascinated by plants. It's interesting. It's new and astounding and he really didn't expect it.

It's _beautiful._

Besides, he's heard these speeches before, heard the lessons about the trees and the bushes, and though he appreciates nature and enjoys the escape from New York, she's better. She's so much better.

So he hikes, and watches her, stepping over roots and stones in time with the bobs of her head. Her eyes widen at new information, lips quirk with satisfaction when Kurt says something she already knew.

It's something he doesn't usually see from her, this gleam in her eyes that rarely comes over their conversations at lunch, that's never sparked by teaching. The fire of something fresh. New information, a new challenge.

It's fiery. _Gorgeous._

It stays, burning the entire time, until they stop at the top of a hill and Kurt's voice lowers as he tells them this is the best view of the lake, off the cliff. He's been to it before, remembers the extraordinary scene, how huge everything looks and how small he felt in comparison.

He remembers how blue the water was, a perfect reflection of the cloudless sky, and how green everything else looked. It's so different from the city, so magnificent.

He turns to see her reaction to the view as the students ooh and ah, wants to see if she has the same reactions, if her eyes sparkle with wonder or burn with fascination.

But instead, they're blank, staring off into space like her mind has taken over, her body useless in a fight against her brain and whatever haunts her within.

 _Oh,_ he really hates that haunted look. Like the smoke that lingers after a flame goes out, thick in the air, hiding wonder and beauty with heavy clouds of grey.

The spark is gone. The fire in her eyes, extinguished.

"Beckett?"

His pinky finger catches hers, fingers reaching out to wrap around her hand. He squeezes, a careful, slight motion that seems to snap her out of it.

She hums, low in her throat as she blinks out at the lake, at the spread of trees and the clear sky. The smoke clears from her eyes, replaced with a darkness as black as coal.

"Are you okay?" he whispers, his nose bumping against her skull as he turns towards her.

Her chin tilts upwards, and her pupils light up with the reflection of the sun until she blinks again, turns back towards him. Her face is all too close. Her forehead presses against his mouth, startling her into tilting her chin up towards him.

And, _fuck,_ he just wanted to make her feel better. Having her lips this close to his is _not_ helping.

Her eyes, too wide with something that looks too much like fear, flash from his cheek to his mouth. A less angry, more emotional and quite possibly more frightening mirror of the time in the stairwell. Without the brick wall. With his hand still firmly locked in hers.

He reaches up, curls his hand around her arm, lets it slide down over her bare skin.

She blinks again, her gaze falling from his mouth and down to their fingers, entwined and trapped in the space between their thighs.

"I…have to go," she whispers, eye flicking back up. "Over there."

And she looks so broken, so scared and lost that he doesn't even try to hold her back when she tugs her hand from his grasp and walks away. She whispers something to Kurt, waits for his nod and disappears back down the trail.

He's left staring at the spot she vacated, his mind racing with reasons for her being so upset in the face of such a gorgeous view.

* * *

Sleep doesn't come. It haunts her. Fatigue tugs at her mind and wipes away her ability to think. Tears render her face a sticky mess. She curls up in a ball, knees pressed against her chest, arms wrapped around her abdomen and lets her eyes fall closed, waits for sleep to pull her under.

But it never does.

Every time she lets herself get lost in unconsciousness, the images come. A younger version of her holding onto the trunk of a tiny tree, running in circles around it and laughing with her mom. Her parents, dancing barefoot in the grass behind the house, under a sea of stars as she watched from her bedroom window. Her mom setting a crown of daisies on her head as her dad grilled their dinner.

Memories that refuse to let her go, that hold her at their mercy, force her to relive the pain of knowing those memories are on a list of happy ones that can never be added to. Cruel. It makes her chest ache as she sucks in a breath, her stomach churn at flashes of crime scene photos and bloodstains, her fingers curl against her sides until it pierces through the numbness.

And yet she leaves her eyes closed, squeezed shut as she tries to force the images away. Lets tears escape when they don't fade.

She tears them open when the alarm she set on her phone goes off, the familiar chirp filling the tent, the device vibrating where it's pressed between her thighs and the base of her sternum. Her muscles protest as she forces herself out of her little ball. The phone is warm when her numbing fingers clumsily wrap around it, when her thumb stumbles over the screen.

She crawls out of the tent slowly, carefully does the zipper back up behind her. They're not back yet, the lot still and quiet and she almost feels like she's disturbing something when she steps onto it, her footstep a loud thud in the almost silent space that's filled only with the soft whistle of wind between leaves.

She could join them, but she doesn't. Doesn't want to, really. The silence is soothing, rare in her day to day life. She takes what time can offer, settling onto the log. So instead of joining them up on the cliff that overlooks the water, she wraps her hand around a stick and doodles aimlessly in the sand.

The silence ends when they get back. She drops the stick and pushes herself up from the log at the first echoes of Kurt's enthusiast tone. A quick glance at her phone tells her it's a quarter past three, as teenage chatter reaches her ears, cuts through the serenity of the outdoors with its chaos.

Castle brings up the back of the line again, his arms crossed over his chest and eyes darting around like he's looking for something. For her.

He's looking for her.

While the students situate themselves on the lot, setting into groups or deciding to enjoy what they can do with their phones, Kurt leaves and Castle comes straight to her. Concern shines in his eyes, weighs his features down as his fingers wrap around hers again, tight. Almost clingy.

"Come on," he says, not angry, but insistent.

She follows.

He leads her to the nearby bathrooms, tugs her behind the building where nobody will see them. His hand releases her, fingers reaching up to trail over her arm like they did before she left him and the group up on the cliff. Soft, almost careful, like he's trying not to break her.

"Are you okay?" he whispers.

She nods, slow as she stares at where his fingers linger against her skin.

"Are you sure?"

She looks up at him this time, finds his face practically twisted with fear for her. "I'm sure, Castle," she promises. "It's just…memories. Nothing to worry about. You shouldn't… Don't worry."

But he snags her hand before she can turn away, tugs her forward. It cuts the space between them by an inch, and her eyes dart up to meet his again, to see the sincerity in his words that are already so evident in his tone.

"I'm your friend, Beckett. I'm going to worry."

The words pierce something inside her, eliminate the part of her insisting they're no more than co-workers because he worries, _he cares_ and it's too much. Too much with the memories and the grief and the weight on her chest that only seems to grow heavier under the intensity of his gaze.

"Okay," she manages. And this time, when she turns to leave, he doesn't hold her back.

She plops herself back down on the log when she gets back to the lot, buries her face in her hands and misses the giggles around her.

He cares. _Too much._

Her head falls back. She blinks up at the sun, drags her nails up her leg.

* * *

The giggles aren't subtle. Not in the least.

Neither are the stares that follow him and Beckett as they return to camp one after the other. The comments are whispers, but he catches them anyway.

"Are they dating?" asks one girl, Kelly.

Her friend, Melissa, laughs at that. "If not, they should be. Have you seen the way he looks at her? He's like a lovesick puppy," she answers, and then smiles up at him innocently as he walks.

Beckett doesn't seem to notice. She's sitting on her log, staring at the empty firepit, letting her eyes dance around from the kids to the sun back to the lack of flames. But she doesn't get mad, doesn't glare at the gossiping students or at him, so he figures she doesn't hear.

He brings some of the students swimming, and she stays behind with those that don't want to come. When he gets back, there's a fire blazing and she's kneeling next to it, poking a stick through a slit in the grill. She motions to the bus with one hand, and he goes over to retrieve dinner from the compartment.

She's sitting back on the log when he gets back, leaning over and scratching at her calves.

"You can cook dinner," she says, motioning with a tilt of her head towards the flames. "I made lunch."

He smiles. "Yeah," he replies, dropping to the ground, the boxes of frozen burger patties falling at his feet. "I'll prove to you that Alexis isn't the only Castle who can cook."

She rolls her eyes, a chuckle escaping her throat. "There is no way you can make frozen burgers taste better than Alexis' pasta. I guarantee it," she says.

"Is that a challenge?" he grins.

She just shrugs.

He cooks the burgers, flipping them on the grill too many times to keep them from burning, hands them off to her and watches as she hands them off to the students. They get covered in ketchup and mustard, but nobody complains. Not even her, as she brings her burger with too much mustard to her mouth and takes a bite.

"So?" he asks afterwards, as he settles onto the log next to her.

She shrugs, a small smile tugging at her lips. "It wasn't bad. Those burgers could have been much, much worse," she admits, a soft laugh rolling from her tongue.

It's not the fire from the hike, but it's not the absence that had her running away, either. A happy medium that makes him smile, bump his shoulder against hers.

The sun slides beneath the trees, coating the lot in a soft orange glow. The students give up their cliques to gather around the fire, couples holding each other a little too close, friends daring each other to do stupid things. He's sitting next to Beckett, watches the ease with which she leans towards the flame, feels her fingers ghost over his arm when she stands up.

"I'm gonna go change," she says, so soft it seems almost intimate.

He watches her walk away, towards the tent they'll be sharing and _wow,_ this is intimate. Oddly so. Because it feels so normal, watching her walk towards their tent, the orange of the setting sun shining in her amber hair.

 _Oh,_ he _is_ like a lovesick puppy.

She settles next to him when she comes back, laughs when he breaks out the marshmallows, accepts his offer to roast one for her. The way she licks the sticky sugar off her fingers after she eats it is almost sinful, the roll of her tongue around her finger, the pop of her lips when she releases it.

And she definitely knows it.

He notices the scratching later into the evening, as the sky goes dark and the kids around them dip into their tents. It's subtle at first, rare, like she has an annoying bug bite. But it gets worse, nails dragging across her legs almost constantly, digging through the fabric of her pants.

The last students duck into their tents at ten, the curfew the school assigned for these trips. Phones light up the insides of the tents, bright through the thin, green nylon.

Beckett leans down, scratches her leg again, eyes still locked on the flames.

"Thank you," she whispers. "For, uh, worrying earlier."

"No problem," he whispers back. "Like I said. You're my…friend. I care about you. I worry about you."

She turns her head at that, pushing herself up into a sitting position. "Yeah," she answers. "We're…friends."

He smiles, feels it crinkle at the corner of his eyes. Because she doesn't look scared this time. Doesn't looks like she's going to run for dear life, or disappear on him for a week. She doesn't deny that they're friends. She confirms it. And smiles back at him as she does.

His gaze darts down to her smile, the curl of her lips and the sliver of perfectly white teeth that peaks between them. _Friends._ Friends don't kiss.

But he really wants to kiss her.

And when her eyes fall to his lips, he's pretty sure she wants to kiss him, too.

His hand comes up to cradle her jaw, thumb brushing the sharp ridge of her cheekbone. Her eyes are speckled with the bright orange of embers, her skin glowing in the firelight.

Then she reaches down and scratches at her leg again, wincing as she does so.

"God," she whimpers. "Why the hell are my legs so itchy?"

He laughs at that, and she shoots him a glare, still leaning over her thighs.

"It's not funny," she says.

"It kind of is," he shrugs. "Come on, we'll check them out."

She takes his hand, lets him lead her from the log to the tent, mumbling something about how the fire shouldn't be left unattended. He just keeps tugging her towards the tent, maintaining his hold on her hand as he pulls the zipper open and lets her crawl in first. He kneels down next to her, the sleeping bags cushioning under his knees.

"Lay down," he tells her.

She sighs, tugging at the corner of her pillow before leaning back against it, settling on her elbows. He can feel her eyes on the back of his head as he rolls her pant leg up.

Her skin is blotchy, red with rashes. Unmistakable.

"How in the world did you get poison ivy?"

She launches herself into a sitting position, pulling her leg out of his grasp. "What?"

"Poison ivy, Beckett. Where did you get it?" he asks, drawing her ankle back towards him.

She looks up at him, eyes wide again. "I don't know," she answers. "I wasn't paying attention when I came back down earlier. Maybe then?"

He nods. "Probably," he agrees. His hand brushes the bone jutting out at her ankle. "Does it hurt?"

"Itches," she answers. "Burns, a little. Though that might be from the scratching."

"Okay," he says, watching as she checks the other leg, only to find the exact same rashy pattern. "I'm get the ointment. You stay here."

" _Castle_." It's a warning.

He doesn't listen.

The first aid kit is in the bus. He goes out to get it, walking past the fire and the log where they almost kissed and he;s never hated poison ivy more than he does right now.

Really. He didn't even hate it this much when _he_ got it.

He reaches into the compartment, pulls out the bright red first aid kit and heads back to the tent, crawls back in to find her sitting up again, scratching at her shin.

" _Beckett_ ," he warns, laughter bubbling in his chest when she glares at him almost pitifully.

"It's itchy," she whimpers. "You don't even know."

He settles onto his knees, fingers curling around his ankles to tug her legs out of her grasp. Her feet settle against his thighs. "Actually," he says, "I do."

"You do?"

He smiles, nods his head, hums. "I do. Got it back on my first camping trip with Alexis when she was five," he explains. "She laughed so hard, and then took care of me. It was _so_ cute."

"You're a good dad," she smiles.

"And I have the poison ivy ointment," he grins back, reaching into the first aid kit to grab the bottle. "You ready?"

She glances down at her legs. "I can do it myself, you know," she whispers.

"Without scratching?"

"I–" She sinks back onto her elbows, head falling against the pillow. "No, probably not."

He smiles, popping the cap off the bottle and letting some of the cream fall into his hand. "That's what I thought."

His fingers wrap around her ankle and he tugs her right leg further onto his lap. His palm presses against her shin, where the bright red blotches are at their worst, and he drags the cream down over the rash. Her leg jerks in his grasp, a feeble attempt to relieve the itching.

"You gotta stay still, Beckett," he chastises, looking up.

She's looking back down at him, eyes wide, as his hands drop her right leg and wrap around the left. His thumb brushes over the jut of bone at her ankle, and her eyes flutter.

She doesn't say a word, eyes still locked on his as he rubs his hand up her leg, covers the rash in cream, and then drags his palms back down again.

"That should be good," he whispers.

She nods, slow as her eyes fall from his to her leg, and then flick back up again. "Thank you."

"I– You're welcome," he smiles. He doesn't want to, but he lets her foot fall from his grasp, her leg landing on the sleeping bag between them. "I'm going to go watch the fire until it goes out. You stay here," he says. "Sleep."

Her nod is just as slow this time, and he feels her eyes on him until he closes the tent's flap behind him, squeezing his eyes shut to force the image of perfect, innocent brown eyes out of his mind.

He's such a love sick puppy.

When he crawls back into the tent about half an hour later, she's curled up on her side, wrapped in her sleeping bag, brown hair spread across her pillow. He settles into his spot next to her, over his own sleeping bag, hands landing on his stomach.

His fingers curl into his palm, fighting the desire to run his fingers through her hair, and he watches the steady rise and fall of her back until sleep drags him under, too.

He's _her_ love sick puppy.

He's falling for Kate Beckett and the mystery behind her smile.


	9. Chapter 9

_**oxymoron**_

* * *

 _oxymoron:_ (noun) a figure of speech in which apparently contradictory terms appear in conjunction

* * *

When consciousness pulls her back, her mind instantly slips into denial.

The first thing she processes is the warmth, unusual and unfamiliar, even compared to the mornings when she wakes up wrapped in her comforter like a caterpillar in a cocoon. Then it's the weight, a heavy line around her waist, too localized to be anything but his arm. There's his breathing, slow and steady under her head, and the beat of his heart, constant in her ear.

She squeezes her eyes shut, stays like that for way too long. Her fingers curl around something she soon releases the moment she realizes she's clinging to his shirt. Her teeth grit against each other, her jaw aching within what must only be minutes, but feels like hours.

When she eventually forces her eyes open, it's to the light that filters through the tent's nylon walls and her hand pressed against his chest in a way that look all too intimate.

She lifts her palm from him, quickly but carefully, unwilling to wake him and face the mortification that would surely come if he found out she woke up sprawled across his chest.

Because no, _no,_ they can't even be spooning, which means she can't blame _him_ for being the clingy one, wrapping himself around her in the middle of the night. She just has to be curled up against his side, her head pressed against his chest and her arm draped over his middle.

This is undoubtedly her fault, her maneuvering in the night that's landed her pressed up against Castle, of all people, like she hasn't been with anyone in well over a year.

 _Snuggling._ She doesn't snuggle. Though the way her heart quickens when his arm tightens around her would clearly beg to differ.

He's still asleep, she figures. Otherwise there would certainly have already been a teasing remark at her expense. Or at least a moment of awkward tension in which she stared up into his open eyes and realized with a dropping heart that he caught her. Or maybe with a fluttering heart that he really didn't seem to mind.

Yeah, no. No, no, _no._ That's not going to happen. It can't happen.

She looks down at herself, finally, and finds that her sleeping bag is no longer zipped up around her and that his fingers are curled around the thick, grey fabric of her hoodie. She swallows back around the ball that forms in her throat, ignores the goosebumps that rise on her arms at the image of possessiveness planted firmly at the side of her waist.

Her fingers curl over his, careful and soft as she gently tugs his hand from around her shirt. She slowly pushes herself up and off the ground, setting his arm back down once the space next to him has cleared.

She grabs her clothes for the day and heads for the bathroom, locking herself in one of the stalls to pull off her hoodie and plaid pyjama pants. She slips on another pair of black yoga pants and a t-shirt. A grey one this time with a neckline that plunges a little lower than what she would normally wear to work.

But they're camping and it's comfortable and she ends up pulling the hoodie on over it, anyway, because the air is still cool with the slight breeze drifting from the lake.

Everyone else is still asleep, she notes when she gets back to the lot. The tents are dark and quiet, not so much as the glow of a phone screen in sight. She drops onto the log, crosses her legs and rests her cheek in her hand, staring up at the span of trees, enjoying the silence the woods have to offer.

It doesn't seem as overwhelming today. Though the memories are still there, ever-present in the back of her mind, they don't seem as tangible, as real. They're pictures of her and her father and her mother, but a glance at a tree doesn't make her see a young version of herself. Her heart doesn't race as her gaze scans the line of treetops.

The cold air bristles across her skin, makes a shiver run up her spine. She curls her hand around her arm, gently rubs the sleeve's worn interior against her chilled skin. Her other hand presses against the rough surface of the log, pushing her up until she's standing over the empty fire pit, staring into the dark pile of ash.

She goes to get the wood at the edge of the lot, balancing logs in her arms and dropping them next to the pit. Then her cold fingers fumble with the freezing handle below the bus as she tries to open the compartment. She grabs a handful of paper, the pot and the styrofoam cups they brought with them before tugging it closed again.

Starting the fire is easy, even as her mind flashes back to the wonder that had sparkled in his eyes when he managed to achieve the same task yesterday.

She waits for the wood to catch, the flames reaching the grill before going back to the bus, re-opening it and dragging the cooler to the edge. Her fingers find one of the many twenty ounce water bottles they brought, the other finding the bag of coffee cream and sugar meant just for her and Castle. She grabs the container of instant coffee last.

Castle crawls out of their tent shortly after the water starts to boil. Her fingers are curled around the handle of the pot, tugging it from above the flames.

"Good morning," he greets, as peppy as always.

She turns to face him, throwing a smile over her shoulder. "Morning."

"Sleep well?" he asks, dropping to sit on the log across from hers.

Her cheeks burn at the question, at the memory of the patter of his heart beneath her ear, of his arm holding her against him in a way that definitely doesn't indicate friendship, or professional tolerance.

She hums, shrugging a shoulder as she reaches down for the tube of cups and dumps a few spoonfuls of coffee into each one. She carefully pours boiling water from the pot into one cup, than the other before turning to find him gone.

He returns with the open bag of plastic utensils, a smile wide across his face. "You forgot the spoons," he shrugs, pulling one out for each of them.

She smiles, dropping the plastic into her cup and stirring until the murky water turns the familiar, dark shade she loves. She ends up stirring his coffee with the same spoon.

"How are your legs?" he asks.

She shrugs. "Still itchy. Better, though. I'm gonna put more ointment on them after this." She looks back up at him, a cup in each hand. "Thanks, for last night."

His smile widens. "It was my pleasure," he answers. "Even red and blotchy, your legs are _hot_ ," he adds, voice lilting as his smile turns to a grin, innocence fading.

She rolls her eyes, but grins back up at him. "They're better when not red and blotchy," she teases. "Maybe you'll find out sometime."

He sputters on air, chokes around nothing as he brings his hand up to his mouth and digs his teeth into his fist.

She thrusts a cup of coffee towards him, a smile still tugging at her cheeks.

"Here you go," she offers.

His fingers brush against hers when he eventually takes it. Her eyes lock on his and she can't help but feel like there's a quiet, muffled message laced within the exchange.

* * *

"Once in the canoe," says Kurt, standing awkwardly in the canoe with a paddle clenched in his fists, "you sit upright on one of the two seats." He shifts easily as a wave rocks the boat before dropping down onto one of the two weaved seats. "Leaning forward will cause strain to your back, but it's more important to avoid leaning to the side. Lean too far and your canoe will tip."

Beckett bumps her shoulder against his, and he turns to find her eyes locked on Kurt. "Why do I feel like, no matter what he says, we're going to end up with at least one pair in the lake?"

He shrugs. "Because canoes are easy to tip over?" he suggests.

She looks up at him, the eye roll he expected not forthcoming. Instead, she smiles. "You've tipped a canoe?" she asks.

He feels his brows furrow as he crosses his arms over his chest. "They're very easy to tip, Beckett," he tells her.

She laughs, gaze returning to the lake. "Figures," she mumbles. And then, louder, "If we flip, then, I'm blaming you."

He laughs, bumps his shoulder against hers just like she did earlier. "Fine," he agrees, "but just to save you the embarrassment."

She elbows him in the ribs, motions with a tilt of her head to where Kurt is demonstrating how to properly hold you paddle, and how to make your canoe go forwards, backwards and turn.

"When we get to shore again, I will help you all land your canoes. All you have to do is set yourself perpendicular to land and slow down by letting your paddles drag in the water. Sounds doable, right?"

The kids nod in unison, the familiar motion exactly the same as every school assembly she's ever been to, the telltale sign that none of them are interested at all.

Kurt doesn't seem to know that, though, as a wide smile spreads across his face. He climbs out of the canoe, using his paddle as a makeshift cane.

"Okay," he says, "now all we have to do is get on the water."

He helps Kurt pull the canoes off their racks and set them down on the sand, as Beckett helps the teams of two drag them closer to shore. Kurt keeps spouting facts and tips and tricks, announcing to everyone that he'll be going last, in case anyone does end up flipping, and that he'll help them all push off shore.

"You two gonna go together?" he asks at one point, as they're tugging the second to last canoe off it's stand.

He turns towards where Beckett is now handing a paddle and a life vest to each student. Her ponytail swings slightly from side to side, and her top has fallen over one of her shoulders.

"Yeah," he answers. "Is that okay?"

Kurt nods, rolling the canoe over so it falls onto its back on the sand. "I figured you would. You two seem pretty close," he answers, shoving one hand into his pocket as the other rests against the last canoe's stern. "She doing okay? Seemed a little upset yesterday after the hike."

His gaze darts back towards Beckett, to the small smile playing at her lips as she watched the students buckle up their life vests, rolling their eyes at the complete lack of style.

She looks fine now, happy even, as she halfheartedly wraps her own life jacket around her neck and tugs the black strap tight around her middle.

"Yeah," he answers. "I think… She's okay. She's strong."

Kurt laughs softly and slaps his shoulder. "And now I know why you guys are so close," he says. He turns around and starts pulling the last canoe off the rack.

"Oh," he breathes. "Beckett and I… We're not together."

The canoe hits the ground with a thud. "No," says Kurt. "But you wanna be." He smiles, curling his hand around the stern of the canoe to tug it closer to shore. "I think she might wanna be, too."

He glances over his shoulder towards Beckett again, finds her now leaning on her paddle, staring down at the row of canoes. She's kicking at the sand, head tilted to the side and though he can't see her face, he would guess that she's lost in thought again.

Not the haunted thoughts, he hopes.

"We're just friends," he tells Kurt, tearing his eyes from her figure. "And sometimes I doubt she even wants that."

"She does," says Kurt, not a hint of doubt in his voice. Like he'd known Beckett for years, could read her like an old friend, as he shrugs one shoulder and reaches back down for the canoe. "She's might be scared to admit it, but she does. Plus, you two would work well together."

He scoffs, the puff of air escaping without permission. "You might not have noticed, Kurt, but Beckett and I are complete opposites," he says. "And she hated me for years."

"You would know better than me," says Kurt. "But I think you two are going to share this canoe and go in a straight line." He smiles as he starts dragging the canoe towards the others.

"A straight line?" he asks.

"Yeah," answers Kurt. "You see, it's about power, direction, like a relationship. If you go straight, it shows that you can compromise, find a rhythm, move forward together. But if it's going around in circles? So is your relationship."

He feels his brows furrow, the frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. "So, you're saying that if we can paddle our canoe without issue, we would be a good couple?"

"Better than most couples that try canoeing," laughs Kurt. "Now, come on, you two are pushing off first."

Beckett ends up taking the front of the canoe, her hands curled around the paddle perfectly as she eases it through the water for the first time.

They end up going in a straight line.

When she asks him why he's smiling when they get there, he tells her he's just proud they didn't flip the canoe.

She laughs, quiet and sweet and reminds him that it would have been _his_ fault. He doesn't argue.

* * *

It's beautiful here.

She saw it the moment they neared shore, Castle whining behind her about how his arms hurt and her own arms burning with exertion. The sand was neat, almost untouched and the trees rose high into the sky, far past the horizon. She stopped paddling for a moment, staring at the blend of blue, tan, green and more blue until he reminded her to paddle because they were turning slightly.

But now, as she steps onto the sand and feels the coarse grains slip into her sandal, it's even more clear. The trees surround them perfectly, uninterrupted until their roots slip into the water. The sand, beyond her few steps and the groove where the canoe landed, is laid out perfectly, windblown and bare.

His hand lands on her back, somewhere between the middle and the base of her spine, awkward between casual and more. She turns to face him, eyes tearing away from where leaves let specks of blue through. His eyes are already on her, not on the sky or the sand, a smile tugging at his lips.

She wants his hand lower, she notices, when something tugs in her chest and she fights the urge to squirm against his palm. He's toeing the line and she wants to step over it.

She's not brave enough to do it, though.

"It's beautiful," she says.

"It is," he agrees.

His eyes are shining, locked on her, and she knows he's not talking about the scenery, knows her face and burning, pink cheeks give her away.

The hand on her back drifts lower, his fingers brushing the waist of her shorts, thumb rubbing a circle against her spine before the comforting weight of his palm falls away.

Kurt is yelling at them from where he's standing in his canoe, holding the paddle in one hand. She feels the sigh well in her chest, disappointment pressed against her ribs. Castle is already gone, heading for shore where the first of the kids' canoes is about to land. Kurt is spouting instructions she can barely hear.

She can still feel the ghostly warmth of his hand until her toes dip into the cold lake water as she reaches to help the first pair of students out of their canoe.

But the water brings it back. The tiny wave that coats the back of her foot seems to crash over her heart, make it stutter with memories that flash in the back of her mind. Her dad's boat, once bright red and drifting on slight waves, now faded and chipped and leaning against the back of the house. Her mom's reading spot, the lawn chair broken and untouched for over a decade now.

Her knee buckles as she steps away from the water, sending her stumbling back until her heel digs into the sand. Her fingers curl around the fabric of her tanktop, knuckles pressing hard against her hipbone.

The eyes on her aren't subtle. Anything but, in fact. The two students, now standing in ankle deep water, are staring at her with brows furrowed. Castle's eyes are locked on her, too, filled with sympathy and pain. His mouth opens, closes, as he lets go of the canoe and then grabs onto it again.

She's pretty sure he wants to comfort her, and when the ghost of his hand on her back returns, she realizes she wants that, too. His arms around her, her face buried in his neck. That closeness she hasn't had in too long, that she knows would wipe away at least some of the ache in her chest.

She swallows around that thought, forces the image back and tears her eyes from his.

"You help them land, I'll help them move the canoes?" she suggests, her voice thick but shaky, stuck in her throat.

His nod is slight, hesitant, as his fingers clench around the edge of the boat. He tugs it farther onto the beach, his eyes landing on the water that laps at his feet as though he knows.

He starts walking down the beach, slow and steady, his eyes still locked on her. His fingers catch hers, gentle and sweet. He squeezes lightly before letting go, a small, sympathetic smile curling at the corner of his mouth.

She watches him go, and then stares at the water, past the cluster of canoes, at the waves that crash over each other.

She doesn't look away until the pair of girls waiting to move their boat remind her that she offered to help.

* * *

He knew something was wrong when she froze earlier, her toes in the water and hands reaching for the canoe. Her face had gone blank, her eyes locked on nothing.

But he truly notices how bad it is on the canoe ride back, when she's on autopilot and he's paddling too slow and they turn to the left. And then when they almost tip a few minutes later, when he knows it;s his fault because but the glare she shoots him is half-hearted, almost absent.

He wants to help her, wants to wipe away the pain, but she turns back towards the water as quickly as she turned to him. Her ponytail zips behind her head, her shoulders tensing as she locks her arms back into the paddling position. She drags it through the water on their right.

He does try. He tries really hard to keep up with her, but the trip back to the lot doesn't go nearly as smoothly.

She stares at the water when they hit shore, the paddle still clutched in her hand. Her shoulders are still tense, her knees locked. He sets his paddle down before reaching out for her. His palm splays over her shoulder, his thumb digging into the spot where her shoulder meets her neck. He reaches out with his other hand to gently pull the paddle from her grasp.

"Beckett," he whispers, squeezing her shoulder gently, "are you okay?"

She doesn't move, just keeps staring at the edge of the lake, but her fingers release the paddle. "Yeah," she answers. It's barely audible, shaky and weak.

"You can tell me if you're not, you know," he responds. "We're friends, remember? I care about you. I worry about you. I want to help you."

He watches as she finally tears her eyes away from the water, and glances over her shoulder up at him. "I'm…okay," she mumbles, just as softly as before. "Really, Castle. It's just…I haven't gone _in_ a lake for years now and it brought up…memories." She reaches up, sets her hand over his. "I'll be okay."

And then she's gone, stepping over the edge of the canoe, carefully avoiding the waves. He's left staring at her back, his mind racing with thoughts of what those _memories_ could be, heart beating with hope that she's not hiding tears behind a determined step.

He pushes himself out of the canoe, forces himself to walk. His heart stutters and aches, his mind flashing with the image of her tear-streaked face, with memories of Monday. His fingers curl into fists, elbows digging into his sides because he can't, _can't._ Can't wrap his arms around her as she cries into his shoulder.

He can't just make the pain go away.

So he avoids her, just as she avoids him. It makes his chest hurt, his eyes sting whenever he sees her leaning against a tree across the lot from him, when she pushes herself off her log just as he goes to start the fire. She counts the paddles and the lifejackets for Kurt, as he helps with the world's lamest scavenger hunt.

Dinner comes and goes with Kurt asking for stories from the city in exchange for his tales of camping trips and animal encounters. He can't focus on them, though, as he stares at her, sitting across from him, eyes reflecting the flicker of flames until the evening fades to night.

He gives up on avoiding her when Kurt breaks out the marshmallows, chocolate and graham crackers.

The first s'more he makes his hot between his fingers, marshmallow seeping out from between the crackers, melted chocolate coating his fingertips. His stomach growls at the temptation as he walks over to her, sinks down next to her. Her eyes dart to him, land on his, and her lips twist into a frown.

"I'm okay, Castle," she mumbles, words cracking as much as the fire.

"I know." _She's not_. "I just wanted to offer you a s'more," he tells her, holding up the snack.

Her eyes light up, flash with something that fades too soon. "Really?"

"Uh… Yeah?"

She shrugs. "You seem like the kind of guy who wouldn't give up his s'mores," she smiles.

"Well then take it as a compliment that I'm offering you this one."

Her smile widens, finally reaching her eyes as she gently takes the s'more from between his fingers. "Thank you," she whispers. He can't look away as she takes the first bite, not from the smile still curling the corners of her mouth or the gleam in her eyes when she opens them back into his.

"Good?" he asks.

She nods. "You should make yourself one."

"I will."

He does, but she ends up getting that one, too, just because he loves the way she smiles when she eats it, and the way she likes the marshmallow off her fingers afterwards.

Kurt leaves at curfew, wishing them all goodnight and a safe trip back to the city. And with only one reminder from Beckett, they're disappearing into their tents shortly after ten.

He pushes himself off the ground, sits instead on the log next to Beckett's. "What do you say we put this thing out and go for a walk?" he asks.

"A walk?" she echoes. He nods. "Where?"

"We could go back up to that cliff," he suggests. Even lit up by firelight, he sees her eyes flash with darkness, and his heart sinks at the image of her leaving, haunted and hurt.

" _Castle_."

It's a warning. He doesn't listen to it.

"You're not okay."

Her eyes flash again, with a spark of anger this time. "I'm _fine._ "

"No," he says. His hand lands on her knee, but she pushes it away. "You're not. You want to be. You will be, in the long run, but right now, you're not."

"But I _will_ be. You said it yourself, Castle. I _will_ be okay." She stands up, stumbles back and almost trips over the log. Her eyes land on him, glare hard as steel. "It's none of your business, anyway."

He shoves against the log, forces himself to his feet. "Yeah, right, it's none of my business. We're friends, Beckett. I told you, I worry about you. And I don't know if you have anyone else looking out for you, or if you have anyone helping you through this…whatever this is. But if you don't, I want to be here for you. That's what friends do."

"So, if I have someone else to help me through this, you'll leave me alone?" she asks.

His shoulders tense. "Do you?"

"Yes."

Her voice cracks. So does his heart.

" _Beckett_."

"Why does this matter so much to you, anyway. You're not my only friends, Castle, but you're the only one this worried about me." She takes a step back, crosses her arms over her stomach.

He steps forward, his hands shaking at his sides. "Why am I worried, Beckett? Because we've been friends for all of three weeks and you've avoided me, you've opened up to me and I _care_ about you." He reaches out for her. His hand lands on her arm. "I just want to help you, but I can't do that if you won't open up to me."

Her gaze lands on his, heavy and haunted, and then falls to the ground.

"Yesterday, you were so excited during the hike, but when you looked off that cliff, you're face went blank and you just left without a word. Beckett, you usually pay so much attention to detail, but you were so distracted on the hike back down that you got poison ivy," he whispers.

She shakes her head. At what, he doesn't know.

"And today, the first canoe ride went _so well_ , but you put your toes in the water and you froze. You've been like a ghost ever since, Beckett. Pale. Shaky. Working on autopilot. And I've spent all this time just wanting to take the pain away, but I can't because _just memories_ doesn't explain why you're shaking like a leaf, or why you're lying about having a support system, or why you've been lost in your own mind for the better part of this week."

He reaches up, sets his hand on the top of her head. Her hair is soft under his palm as he runs his hand over it, delicate between his fingers when he tucks a strand behind her ear.

"You can tell me, Beckett. I won't tell anyone. I won't laugh. I'll try not to see you any differently, but even if I do, I bet I'll see you as stronger." His hand caresses her cheek, his thumb wipes the single tear that falls. "Tell me about the memories, Beckett. Let me help you."

She hesitates. But her head dips again, and she speaks.

"My dad owns a cabin upstate. We used to go there when I was little." He tugs her closer as her hands curl around his biceps and cling. "There's a lake in the yard, way smaller than this, but still…there. My parents taught me to swim in that lake." Her voice quivers, breaks. "And the cliff… There's a similar, smaller one at the cabin. My mom used to go up there to read."

His heart skips a beat. "Your mom?"

 _But she…passed away…years ago._

She nods, hums deep and pained.

"Is that why…?" _You seem so hurt? So haunted?_

She nods again, her eyes meeting his this time. There's tears shining in them, gleaming orange with firelight. "You know…how I told you…she passed away?" she whispers, her voice too breathy and weak and his heart sinks in fearful anticipation. "She didn't just…die, Castle."

His hands tighten around her arms. His eyes sting, tears burning for her.

She sucks in a breath, long and slow, lets it out in three words that break his heart and have him crushing her body against his, wrapping his arms around her. Holding her while she cries into his shoulder.

"She was murdered."

He turns his head, buries his nose in her hair. He shouldn't be crying, not when she's the one in pain, but a stray tear finds the top of her head, a broken word falling from his lips.

" _Kate._ "

* * *

 **First of all, I am so, so, _soooooo_ sorry for the delay with this chapter. I started school and my IBS has been acting up bad so I've had very little time or energy to write. Add a small dose of writer's block and you guys get a three week wait for which I am _soooo_ sorry. **

**Second, I apologize for any mistakes in his chapter. I finally finished it but it was getting on the later spectrum of when I usually post so I bypassed editing most of it. If it sucks, I'm sorry. If there's typos, I'm sorry. Sentences that don't make sense? Well, I'll blame the meds for those. :P**

 **And now that I'm done apologizing for everything (sorry, I'm Canadian. It's what we (I) do.) I really hope you enjoyed this.**


	10. Chapter 10

_**oxymoron**_

* * *

 _oxymoron:_ (noun) a figure of speech in which apparently contradictory terms appear in conjunction

* * *

Her name sounds broken from his lips, muffled in her hair. Soft and sympathetic as his arms tighten around her body, press her against him. His fingers comb through her hair, gentle and soothing. He's comforting her, holding her like no one has over the past decade, strong and surrounding her and offering her whatever she needs.

So she cries. Lets out this…everything that's been consuming her for a week and sobs into his shoulder. Fingers claw at his back, legs quiver under her weight. And she cries until she can't cry anymore.

Her eyes burn and sting against the fabric of his shirt when he pushes her away, just enough for his gaze to land on hers. The fire has died down, the moonlight subtle and barely there, but she's pretty sure his eyes are red, too. Swollen, a little puffy like hers must be.

Her heart stutters with it, with the knowledge that he was crying, too. With her. For her.

His hand splays across her arm, drifts down over the crook of her elbow, to her shaky fingers. He wraps his fingers around hers, squeezes gently. His other hand caresses the base of her skull, curls around her nape before dropping to his side. His gaze stays locked on hers as he slowly leads her to the log.

He sits down first, tugs her down next to him. The log feels oddly big under her this time, strangely rough under her palms. She rests her hand on her thigh, instead, digs her nails into her knees. Her other hand stays locked firmly in his, rests on his thigh. She stares at it, draws comfort from his touch.

He squeezes her hand, again, before he speaks. "Do you wanna talk about it? About…what happened?" It's soft, shaky. He sounds almost scared to ask, she notes. Scared to hurt her.

She drags her gaze away from their intertwined hands, locks it on a lone stone sitting on the ground near her toes. The pressure wells in her chest, in her head, behind her eyes. Tears returns, pooling behind her eyelids. The ache in her chest intensifies, a sharp pang of loss and absence that she's always trying to forget about. That never really goes away.

"You don't have to," he whispers, thumb drifting over hers. "I understand, if you don't want to. I don't think I'd want to." It's so quiet, understanding, her heart flutters with something so far from pain, overwhelming in such a different way that suddenly seems even harder to face. "But, if you think it would help," he says, "I'm here to listen."

She swallows thickly around the ball in her throat, around the pain that threatens to escape as a sob that would be stupidly embarrassing.

"It's not much of a story," she mumbles. It's shaky and weak.

He reaches over, settles a hand on her leg. "I'm not looking for entertainment value, Beckett," he tells her. "I just want to help you, and if talking is what you need…"

"You're here to listen," she finishes for him.

"Yeah," he says. "I am."

She sighs, eyes falling closed. The words she wrote long ago flash to the forefront of her mind, simple and clear. An easy explanation for something that seems so complicated and crazy and insane.

She swallows around another ball in her throat. "I… We were supposed to go to dinner together," she whispers, the words barely audible to her own ears, "my mom, my dad and I." Her eyes fall closed. She feels a cold tear fall onto her cheek. "But she never showed."

He squeezes her hand, the others leaving her leg to splay across her shoulder. He rubs a line from one shoulder blade to the other before curling his fingers around her arm. She doesn't fight him when he draws her towards him.

"Two hours later, we went home," she continues. "And there was a detective waiting for us. Detective Raglan." His face lingers in the back of her mind, chiseled features and hazel eyes. She can still here his voice, his words. "They found her body," she chokes. "She had been stabbed."

A strangled sob escapes her, leaves her chest aching, her nose running, tears streaming down her cheeks. She covers her mouth with her hand, cries into it. He's the one that wipes the tears off her face.

He pulls her against him, arm still draped over her shoulders. Her knees bump against his, her head presses against his chest. He wraps his other arm around her, holds her, again. His fingers comb through her ponytail, gently massage her arm. Her tears are soaked up by the fabric of his shirt.

The material is damp against her face when she sucks in a slow, steadying breath, blinks the burn away from her eyes. Her fingers, she finds, are curled tightly around his shirt, clinging to him.

His hand runs down her back, follows the curve of her spine. The other squeezes her shoulder.

"Was it a robbery?" he asks, his voice so low she wonders if he even meant to say it.

She shakes her head, temple pressing hard against his chest. "No. She still had her money," she says, staring down at his leg, at where her knee is pressed against his, "and it wasn't a sexual assault either. They attributed it to gang violence, a random, wayward event, and…"

 _These types of cases rarely get solved, Mr. Beckett, Miss Beckett._

"And the killer was never caught," he finishes for her.

She nods, again.

His arms tighten around her, hold her tightly until she's on the verge of falling asleep in his arms, cheeks sticky with dried tears, fingers still clinging to his shirt.

* * *

He wakes up with her in his arms, her cheek pressed against his shoulder, arm wrapped around his middle, leg draped over his. His arm is numb under her head, the other hand resting above hers on his chest.

She's still wearing the yoga pants and hoodie she was wearing by the fire last night. Her hair is still pulled back, looser now and slightly mussed with sleep. A few stray strands tickle his chin and neck. Her feet are bare, a little cold. The sleeping bags are beneath them, though. Just a small blanket he brought covering them—well, mostly her.

He runs his hand along the curve of her shoulder, down her arm and back up again. It has her nuzzling against him, pressing herself tighter against him, still lost in sleep.

Good. She should be sleeping.

They were out late last night, sitting on the log. He'd held her the entire time. She'd been pressed up against him like she is now until long after the fire died and the sky filled with stars. Just…silent. Comforting. Soothing. Waiting for some semblance of calm and stability to wash over her. Waiting for sleep.

It wasn't until she yawned against him that he suggested they go to bed. Even the lingering smoke was gone by then. He pulled her to her feet, let her lean against him as he led her to the tent. And when she curled up on a ball above her sleeping bag, he couldn't resist reaching out to her, letting her curl up around him, instead.

He hadn't let himself close his eyes until he was sure she was asleep.

And now here they are, and she's still asleep. More peaceful, now, and holding onto him less tightly. But she's still sleeping, and still wrapped around him and completely vulnerable. Open, like she was last night. Shy and hurt and scared and innocent. And asleep.

He has no idea what time it is or when he has to get up, but he really doesn't want to move.

She stirs, just a bit. Her foot rides up his leg. Her head nuzzles against his chest. Out of instinct, he tightens his arms around her, settles his chin against the top of her head.

They're just friends. Co-workers and friends, new friends at that. Sure, since they've been on the camping trip she's opened up to him, they've been closer. There's one more _almost_ kiss on their list of, well, only two. And then there's the closeness, the touching, the _cuddling_ that he won't complain about.

But they _are_ just friends.

It doesn't feel like they're just friends, though. Now with her draped across him like this. Not when his heart stutters every time she moves because he wants to be _more._

He trails his fingers down her side, ghosts his fingertips over the thick fabric of her sweater. Her hand is warm under his, soothing against his chest in an odd way. It's comfortable, having her like this, even though his fingers on one hand are tingling, going numb and he can't really move because of her restricting weight.

It feels…right.

He swallows around the realization, around the fact that he's been married twice and even then it wasn't like this. With this woman, so strong on the outside, always mending herself within. With her.

With _Kate._

She's still asleep, still unaware of everything he does.

So he takes a risk, toes the line between friendship and more that's traced bold between them, and dusks a kiss to the top of her head, so gently he's not sure she'd feel it even if she were awake.

His head falls back against the pillow, his eyes falls closed. Unwilling to move, unwilling to risk waking her up, he lays there, holds her in his arms until she stirs into consciousness.

It catches him off guard when she doesn't pull away like he burned her. When she doesn't pull away at all. So much so that he thinks, for a moment, that she fell back asleep, or didn't wake up in the first place. But her hand flips under his, fingers squeezing his hand.

"Thank you," she mumbles, voice soft and thick with sleep. "For last night, I mean. I think it helped, to tell someone." She looks up at him, but doesn't raise her head from his chest. "You were really supportive about it. Listened well. Didn't get caught up in the story. I know that must have been hard."

He wants to kiss her.

She's staring up at him with wide, innocent eyes and the slightest smile thanking him for being there for her as though he could've been anywhere else and he wants to kiss her. Her head, or her cheeks. Her lips that are curled upwards so beautifully, so perfectly.

"Uh, it wasn't," he answers. "You needed someone to listen, not someone to spin you a mystery novel."

She nods, lets her head fall back against him. "I am sorry for dumping all that on you, though," she says. "I…try not to bother people with it. You shouldn't have to deal with my baggage."

"I want to," he says and–

 _Oh,_ that came out wrong. Or two personal. Or something. Because she tenses in his arms, just slightly, and the words echo in his mind like it's a promise that he cares about her more than he should. As much as he does. And she's not supposed to know about that yet—possibly ever.

"I'm your friend," he covers. "I care about you. I don't want you to be…hurt or upset."

She settles in his arms, sinks back against him. "Well, you're a good…friend, Castle," she whispers.

It feels like she's saying more, saying something more important.

"You're a good friend, too, Beckett."

He feels her smile, sees it when she slowly pushes herself off his chest. She presses a soft, barely there kiss to his cheek before pushing herself onto her knees, still smiling. Probably at how surprised he looks.

"You get dressed, I'll make coffee," she says. And then she's gone, crawling out of the tent and leaving him there.

His heart stutters at the intimacy of the moment, the ghost of her lips lingering on his cheek.

* * *

For some inexplicable reason, she opts for the window seat on the ride back to the city.

It had absolutely _nothing_ to do with the fact that being wedged between him and the wall is somewhat, just a very, tiny, little bit appealing. Absolutely nothing.

And yet, she notices, about half an hour after the bus jerks into motion, that she's not leaning away from him, not pressing herself up against the wall and staring out the window. She's not avoiding him in exchange for the book she downloaded to her phone in anticipation of this trip.

She's…staring at his leg. Well, his knee. And his hands as he plays some game she doesn't recognize on his phone and her mind is _not_ in the gutter. Not at all.

Well, maybe a little. But he has really nice hands, so she really can't be blamed for wondering how they would feel circling her waist, splayed across her sides, covering her–

"You know, had I know you were just gonna stare at me the whole time, I would have taken the window seat," he says, making her eyes flick up from where his thumb is still drifting across the screen to his face, to find him looking back at her.

"I wasn't…staring." Well…that's a lie. "I, uh, don't know that game," she motions to his phone, now sitting idle on his thigh, the game paused.

He chuckles. "Oh, yeah, that's not hard to believe," he says. She glares. "But you, Katherine Beckett, were not wondering about the game; you were staring at the man."

"The man being you," she mutters.

"Well, obviously." He smiles, clicks his phone off. "No need to be embarrassed, Beckett. In fact, I'm rather flattered by your _staring_ ," he grins, his hand landing on her leg.

 _Oh,_ she _not_ going to squirm. She is not–

"You would be," she counters. "Since _you_ stare at _me._ "

He shrugs. "I won't deny it." His hand drifts up, just barely, but it has her fighting against the shiver at the base of her spine. "But when I do it, you find it creepy. When you do it, I find it really, really _hot_."

Something flutters in her chest, pools in her stomach. She ignores it. "You might want to think about what you find hot, Castle, because I wasn't staring at you."

He hums, nudges her shoulder with his. "You were," he sing-songs. "And even though you can deny that you were doing it today," he squeezes her leg, finger drifting up even farther, "yesterday morning is something else completely."

It draws a gasp from her chest, the words, the hand a little to high on her thigh. "How did you know?"

"I didn't," he laughs, "but I do now."

"Oh." _Rookie move._

He squeezes her thigh, again, keeps her fighting not to squirm in her seat. His shoulder is pressed against hers, and she realizes with startling certainty that she _likes_ it. And that she doesn't want the contact to stop. That she could lean away from him, press herself against the wall next to her instead of against him.

She doesn't.

"Tell me, Beckett, did I at least look handsome when I was sleeping? Did it make you want to cuddle, or more?" he asks, a whisper in the sliver of space between them.

She swallows thickly. This is taking a turn she didn't see coming, a turn from _we're friends and co-workers_ and nothing more. This feels like they're inching towards something more.

He will _not_ get to her.

"You looked pretty much exactly like you do now," she says dryly, shrugging one shoulder. "Although, your mouth was shut, so maybe you were _slightly_ more attractive."

"More?" It's happy, hopeful. "You think I'm attractive?"

That earns him another eyeroll. "You have women asking you to sign their chests at every single one of your book signings. How is this a shocker to you?"

He shrugs, goes oddly serious. His fingers tighten around his thigh, again. "You're…you. Katherine Beckett." He says it like it's an explanation, like it sums up everything.

All it does is make her brows furrow. "I know my name. What does who I am have to do with how attractive you are?"

His eyes meet hers, gaze serious. "You aren't like them. You're…real and wounded and serious and I'm not. I didn't think you could ever, well, you know, find me attractive," he shrugs.

She stares at him, mind racing with new information with this side of him she hasn't seen in any of the three years that she's known him. This…Castle who is insecure and cares about her opinion seemingly more than he does about those of hundreds of his fans.

That thing in her chest is back. That fluttering that she's growing to…not dislike. Her hand settles over his on her leg, her fingers slipping into the gaps between his.

"Well, Castle, without this meaning anything about…us," she says, "you are an attractive man."

He smiles, bright and happy like a child who made their parents proud. Like she probably did that day he signed her book, called her beautiful.

Well, she hasn't thought of that day in a while. She shouldn't be thinking about it now.

"Now, go back to playing your game, Castle. We still have hours on this bus," she mutters, patting the top of his land, leaning away from him just a bit.

He grins. "You just want an excuse to stare at me again."

"So what if I do?" she shrugs. "I thought you found it hot."

"Oh, I definitely do," he says, digs his phone out of his pocket.

She smiles, leans back in her seat. Outside her window, trees blur into an endless line of green. Her toes dig into the soles of her shoes. Her fingers ghost over the spot his vacated.

She tries not to stare at him, but she does.

* * *

The bus lurches to a stop in the school parking lot sometime after lunch, the students grumbling about being hungry, his legs on the verge of going numb. Beckett, however, seems perfectly fine, as she stands up in her seat, gives the students their orders before whispering for him to start the line off the bus.

She slings her duffel bag over her shoulder as he pulls on the straps of his backpack. He carries one of the two, mostly empty coolers. She carries the other one, back arched slightly, chin tilted upwards until she drops it onto the gym floor, a smile on her face.

"Do you have anything you need to pick up in your classroom?" she asks. "'Cause I'm just going to head up there before I leave. Or do you have to go find Alexis?"

He smiles. "Nope. Her trip doesn't come in until about three, apparently. Gives me a few hours to waste before the responsible one is back," he answers.

"Oh, so you're going to waste them with me?" she says. Her eyes shine with amusement, voice lilted.

"With you," he answers, "it could never be a waste of time."

He braces for the laugh, the eyeroll, the warning in the form of only his name, but it never comes. Instead, she's smiling at him, as open as she was in his arms this morning, as she was when she was teasing him in the bus.

"Well, then, you coming?"

She saunters away, hips swaying. He runs after her, reaches the door before she can, pulls it open for her. She leads him into the hallway, her teasing smile turning sweet, just as beautiful, a little more shy. Her fingers drift over his as she opens the door to the stairwell. The north one, where they…

"Last time we were here together, you were livid," he says, the words out in the open between them before he can really think them through.

She turns to him, shrugs. "You'd volunteered me for a trip I didn't want to go on. I had the right to be mad," she says.

"I know. I'm not saying I didn't deserve it."

She looks at him, tilts her head to the side. A smile comes across her face, and she takes a step down, so they're both standing on the landing, in between the two flights of stairs. Exactly where…

"You remember what else happened last time we were here?" she asks.

She's flirting, he realizes. That teasing glint in her eyes, the ever so slight upturn of her lips. Because _of course_ she remembers what happened here last time. So does he.

He hasn't been able to _stop_ thinking about it.

He takes a step forward, just an inch closer to her. "I remember exactly what else happened last time we were here," he says, reaching out to curl his fingers around her arm. She doesn't pull away. "You realized how much you want me."

She rolls her eyes. "That's one way to put it."

"You almost kissed me, and then ran off and avoided me," he says.

"I didn't _almost_ kiss you," she counters. "I…thought about kissing you."

He squeezes her arm. "You _wanted_ to kiss me."

She sucks in a breath. "I–" She shakes her head, takes a step back. "We shouldn't," she says. "You're my friend. I don't want to…rush into anything."

"Rush into it?" he asks. She nods slowly, lip tugged between her teeth. "Okay then, Beckett. Well, it's spring break now, which means we won't get to see each other every day."

"Oh no, how will I make it without you?" she teases.

It's incredible, really, how quickly they can go from holding onto each other, on the verge of making out against the stairwell wall, to this friendly teasing they've grown into over the past few weeks. Like a game of chicken, toeing the line, stepping on it, and then back again.

"I don't know," he says. "Which is why I want your phone number. You know, to tide you over for the next week."

Her brows raise, lips curling into a smile. "To tide _me_ over?"

"Exactly," he nods. "As your friend, I'm just looking out for your well-being."

Her smile fades, just a bit. Falling into something more serious…more sentimental. It reminds him too much of the look on her face right before she started telling him about her mom, when her eyes were locked on the ground and he was staring at her, wishing he could take away her pain.

He steps towards her, reaches for her arm. His palm settles on her shoulder, squeezes gently. Her eyes fog with confusion, gaze locked on his.

"Seriously, Beckett, you had a rough week," he whispers. "With everything that happened… I don't know if you have someone to talk to. Your dad, Lanie, maybe? And if you do, if you're willing to talk to them about it, then you can forget that I'm even asking, but…we're friends, maybe a little more than friends and I just want to make sure you're okay."

She's staring up at him, now, eyes still foggy. "You really…care that much?" she mumbles.

"Of course I do," he says. "So, if you will give me your phone number, I'm going to keep you occupied all week, on any day that you don't have other plans. I'm going to make sure you smile every single day until we come back to work. I can even help you correct assignments."

She chuckles. "You don't need to offer to do my work to get my number, Castle." She reaches over, splays her hand over his arm, too. "This is…sweet. You're a good friend."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," she nods. "So, come up to my classroom and I'll give you my number. You can…text me, sometime."

His smile widens as he follows her up the second flight of stairs, into her classroom. She scribbles the number down on a post-it, sticks it to the back of his hand. He lingers by her door as she gathers up the papers she needs to correct. She doesn't ask why he doesn't do the same.

"Are you leaving now?" she asks.

He shrugs. "I was gonna wait for Alexis, but I can walk you to your car, carry one of your bags."

"You don't have to," she says.

He reaches past her, though, slips the strap of her duffel bag off her shoulder. "I know. I want to," he tells her.

She smiles, doesn't protest as they walk back down the stairs, side by side this time. He stays by her side through the parking not, ignores the look she shoots him when he confesses that he knows which one's her car. He drops her duffel bag into the back seat, watches as she sets her messenger bag on the passenger seat.

"See you tomorrow," he says.

She waves. "See you tomorrow."

The car whirs to life, and he lingers in the parking lot until he can't see her anymore.


	11. Chapter 11

_**oxymoron**_

* * *

 _oxymoron:_ (noun) a figure of speech in which apparently contradictory terms appear in conjunction

* * *

She opens the door to find Castle standing there, an easy smile on is face, hands in his pockets.

"Good afternoon, Beckett," he greets, walking in without invitation. She closes the door behind him and turns to face him, only to see his back. The downward flick of her eyes is absolutely beyond her control.

He turns to face her, again, still smiling. She's leaning back against the door now, arms hanging at her sides. His eyes land on her face first, travel down her body, to her bare toes and back up again. It has her fighting to urge to cross her arms over her chest, to move and start some pointless conversation.

But his eyes meet hers again before she can move, and he keeps smiling as he speaks. "You look beautiful."

Her gaze falls from him to her outfit. It's simple, really; a pair of jeans and a top. And though she _did_ choose these pants because they're dark and tight and this top because it brings out the gold flecks in her eyes, she didn't expect him to comment. She didn't expect him to look at her the way he is.

 _Oh,_ this just friends thing is not going to last if he keeps looking at her like that.

"Thank you," she whispers.

"You're welcome," he responds. "So, you ready for you daily dose of Castle induced smiles?"

That has her smiling already, dipping her chin towards her chest to hide it, to muffle the quiet laugh that escapes. Her eyes meet his again, and she finds them shining with amusement. "Is that what you're calling it?"

"What would you call it?" he asks.

She shrugs. "My daily dose of Castle annoyance?"

He takes a step back, pressing a hand dramatically against his chest. "Beckett, I'm wounded," he says. "You and I both know we're past the everything I do annoys you stage."

She hums. "Maybe not _everything_ you do, but I'm sure you could still find many ways to annoy me."

"Just for that, I'm not telling you where we're going," he says. "All you get to know is that we're walking. Oh, and I hope you haven't eaten yet."

With that, he's walking past her, reaching for the doorknob and tugging the door open behind her. It has her stumbling forward and turning back around to see his face. He's smiling again, happy with a hint of mischief as he motions to the door with his free hand, silently telling her to go first.

She does, turning to lock the door behind her before silently following him to the elevator.

His hand finds her elbow as he leads her into pedestrian traffic. Whether to actually help her or just to keep her close, she's not sure. Although she really doesn't mind, either way, when his fingers drift down her arm, brush against hers before falling away completely.

He's toeing the line. _They're_ toeing the line. As always.

She knows the route, even though she doesn't know the destination. He's easy to follow, always waiting for her at the intersections, indicating whether or not they'll be turning. She finds herself falling into step with him more easily than expected, finds herself not caring that she has no idea where they're going or what they'll be doing there. She's not in control, and for the first time in a long time, it doesn't really bother her.

It's because she trusts him, she realizes. After telling him everything, letting him see her and hear her and _hold_ her when she was at her most vulnerable…she trusts him with these little things.

When that started, she has no idea.

She looks up at him, then, as they stop at another intersection. His face is lit up with a mixture of natural and artificial light and with that joy she could only ever attribute to Richard Castle—the love of life she hasn't seen in her own reflection in years.

"Can I know where we're going now?" she asks.

He shakes his head, glancing down at her. "Not yet. It's a surprise," he says. "But don't worry, we're almost there."

She nods, following him across the street as the traffic lights switch.

They walk by the bookstore where she buys most of her books—where she buys her copies of _his_ books. The ones that have accompanied her to bed and in the bath and on nights when sleep only brought nightmares, which she avoided with the help of his stories, his words.

She turns to look at him as they pass it, the familiar storefront fading from her peripheral, but he's staring straight ahead. Oblivious to her thoughts, to her reality. Oblivious to the fact that, long before she hated his presence in the classroom next to hers, she wore the spines of his books down and made the ink at the corners of the pages fade.

She doesn't tell him. Not yet. Instead, she takes a running step forward and finds her place right at his side again.

Just as quickly as she falls back into pace, he slows to a stop, gently pushing her out of the lines of pedestrians and onto the edge of the sidewalk, her arm almost touching the glass window next to her.

It's familiar.

"Here we are," he says.

She looks up, just to make sure, and finds the storefront far more familiar than that of the bookstore.

"I know this place," she says.

It's the restaurant she comes to every Sunday for lunch with her dad, where she rants about students and dances around talking about her mom. Where her father doesn't even bother trying to disguise his speeches about her getting a boyfriend, falling in love and having kids one day.

"I know you do," he tells her, his voice cutting through her thoughts. "I saw you leaving one day, back when we were still co-workers and just barely friends. I came to check it out the next day. They make the best hamburgers."

"You came to eat here just because I did?"

"Why?" he asks. "Do you find that sweet?"

There's that smile again, happy and mischievous and teasing. She returns it this time.

"More creepy, actually."

He shrugs. "Well, I tried," he says. "Can I at least interest you in a burger?"

She finds herself nodding, bumping her shoulder against his. "Actually, Castle, I'm more of a fries and milkshake girl," she tells him, and then she's reaching for the glass door and making her way inside.

He follows close behind, smile wide as he joins her in a booth.

* * *

"You should have let me pay my half, Castle," she says for what must be the tenth time since he picked up the bill.

He pushes open the door, lets her leave the restaurant first. "I did say this was your daily dose of _Castle_ induced smiles. How could I say that if I let you pay for your own meal?" he counters, following her onto the sidewalk, where the hustle and bustle of lunch has calmed to a quieter crowd.

"It would make it lunch between friends," she answers.

It has him stopping in his tracks. Not her completely reasonable answer, but the wording. Like because he paid it was something more, or less, than lunch between friends. More. She was definitely implying more.

It seems to take her a minute to realize it, though, because she stops a few feet ahead of him and turns to face him with wide eyes. "That's…not what I meant," she says.

He takes a step closer to her. "Oh? Then what did you mean, Beckett?" he asks.

She's nibbling on her lower lip now, like she does when she's nervous. Her eyes dart away from his, to the pane of glass at her left. "Just, that, you know, people tend to pick up the _whole_ bill on…dates." It's a mumble, soft and shy but it has him stepping forward, even closer to her, so he can reach out and cradle her arm in his palm.

"So, because I paid, this is a…date?"

She shakes her head, almost violently. "No. No. This wasn't a date, Castle," she says.

"So, if not a date and not lunch between friends, what was it?" he asks.

She looks up at him again, eyes wide and he's standing too close. He could easily lean down and catch her lips with his, make this a date with the sweep of his mouth across hers.

But she takes a step back, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "It was today's daily dose of Castle annoyance," she answers, and then she's turning on her heel and walking away from him, allowing him only a glimpse of her smile.

He runs to catch up to her, joining her at the next intersection on their way back to her apartment.

"I'll tell you what," he says, "you can pay for our next activity. You know, to make up for me paying for this one."

She looks up at him. "And what if our next activity is way more expensive than this one was? I'm no millionaire, Castle," she asks.

"It won't be, because you get to choose it," he answers. "Tell me, Beckett, is there anything you want to do tomorrow?"

Her brows furrow, eyes widening with skepticism. "Are you trying to tell me you don't already have this entire week planned out?" she asks.

"Well, I have some ideas," he answers, "but those were mostly in case I had to drag you out. I'm open to your ideas. This is about making _you_ happy, after all. So, tell me, what do you want to do tomorrow that you'll pay for?"

She shrugs. "We could go to the Angelika. Forbidden Planet is playing."

 _Oh,_ he loves that movie.

And yet, as he keeps up with her steps down the sidewalk, he furrows his brows, forces his mouth to twist into what he hopes is a look of confusion. "Forbidden Planet?" he asks. "Is that the one with the robot?"

She turns to him at that. "You've never seen Forbidden Planet?" she says, voice laced with disbelief.

Of course he has. Multiple times—with Alexis, mostly—but occasionally by himself. And yet he shrugs. "I'm more of a Star Wars, Matrix guy myself."

She actually stops at that, pulling him to the edge of the sidewalk much like he did to her. Here eyes are wide now, as surprised as her tone. "Oh my God, Castle, this is the movie that inspired those two," she says.

Her hand is on his arm, her lips forming a smile as she speaks. It makes it hard to keep the act, but he manages to quirk an eyebrow, maintain a straight face.

"That's it," she says, "I'm taking you. My treat."

He smiles. That's exactly what he wanted—for her to come up with an idea, for her to share it with him. And, well, the fact that she's bringing him to see one of his favorite movies has him falling for her even harder, faster. Doubting that this pretense of being just friends will last so much as the week.

"Okay," he agrees.

She's shaking her head as she returns to the sidewalk, falls into step with pedestrian traffic and him at her side. "I still can't believe you haven't see it. You, of all people."

"Well, I'll be happy to see it for the first time with you," he says.

She looks up at him, again. Her eyes still a little wider than usual, lips parted ever so slightly. Her pace doesn't falter, though, as her gaze flicks down to where their hands are just barely touching between them.

She hooks a finger through his. He flips his palm, takes her whole hand instead.

The rest of the walk is silent. Quiet, slightly awkward. The fact that they're _holding hands,_ in public, just walking around and most definitely looking like a couple stays present and bright in the forefront of his mind.

That, and the expectation that she will let go, pull away and pretend it's not happening. Pretend they're not on the verge of crossing this line she drew between them and forgetting it was ever there in the first place.

But she doesn't. Not when they cross the threshold into her building, not after the elevator doors slide closed behind them.

Not when she's leaning against the wall next to her door, a shy smile playing at her lips.

"I actually had fun today," she admits, voice so soft he barely hears it.

"Good to know," he smiles. "I have to make sure you get your daily dose of Castle induced smiles."

She laughs quietly. "Well then, I'll see you tomorrow for my, uh, _that_?"

He nods. "I'll see you tomorrow, Beckett."

He squeezes her hand before turning to leave, a silent way to keep himself from kissing her.

* * *

It wasn't supposed to be a date. It still isn't a date, technically, when they leave the building and walk out onto the street.

But she spent at least an hour with her head on his shoulder and his pinkie finger caught with hers, a quiet, gentle echo of yesterday's hand holding. The popcorn they shared was long gone by then, leaving her watching a movie she's seen a dozen times, mind locked on his proximity and the rise and fall of his chest.

Their hands have parted now, though, their fingers just barely brushing in the space between his body and hers.

"You lied to me."

He draws away from her, just an inch, brows raised almost comically, eyes wide. "Beckett, how could you accuse me of such I thing? I would never lie to you," he says.

"Oh? Because, if I remember correctly, you said you'd never seen this movie, and yet you mouthed every line during the second half," she counters. "Which means you either have psychic abilities, or you've seen the movie before."

"Well, I did once imagine that a beautiful woman would move into my loft and never leave," he says. "Turns out, it was my mother."

She laughs, the sounds bursting from her chest without her permission as her head tilts forward to hide it.

From between them, her hand reaches up, her fingers splaying across his shoulder, where she pats once, twice. "Oh, Castle. You've still got time. I'm sure you'll be able to find another beautiful woman wanting to move into your loft and stay with you forever," she says.

"You offering?"

Her step falters, and she looks up to find him staring straight ahead, still smiling.

 _Oh,_ this is dangerous. Very dangerous.

She's never even seen his apartment and yet her mind seems to be forgetting that. Favoring images of them talking over dinner, or sharing a blanket during a movie, or sharing a bed in the middle of the night…or the morning before they have to go to work.

Dangerous images. Very dangerous images.

"No," she says, but it's a shaky whisper that sounds in no way convincing, even though she _is_ telling the truth. "But I will offer you dinner. There's a restaurant just a few blocks down, cozy atmosphere, great food, no reservation needed."

He hums. "Well, it's not quite moving into my loft and staying with me forever, but I'll take it," he agrees. "For now."

Her mind goes blank. Just for a second before she realizes she's supposed to be walking, keeping up with him, leading him to the dinner she offered.

But he _can't_ say things like that and expect her not to react.

Her teeth dig into her lip almost painfully to keep the argument on the tip of her tongue back. It could lead to a conversation she's not quite ready to have, to promises she's still apprehensive about making.

To the kiss she's been stupidly craving.

But she can't. It would be…stupid to just jump into this on a random sidewalk when he's her friend and her co-worker and it seems so much more is at stake here than whether or not she can find the right words.

Like her heart. Her heart is definitely on the line here and she's not sure she'll ever be able to take it back, to protect it like she used to.

Ever since her mom died, she hasn't let anyone in. She's built walls of brick around her and hasn't let anybody in, and nobody's tried to scale them…

Until Castle.

Her heart is hammering against her ribs when they get to the restaurant, stepping under the green canopy as he reaches for the door and holds it open for her.

She steps inside before him, but he follows close behind, a hand finding her lower back as he guides her to one of the tables. She slides into her seat, shedding her jacket, as he does the same.

A waitress appears at the edge of the table within minutes, hair pulled back in a high ponytail, bouncing on her toes. She's young, probably still in training.

"And what can I get the happy couple to drink today?"

She sputters on nothing, rushing to cover her mouth with her hand and pretend it was a cough.

Across the table, Castle smiles up at the waitress. "We're not a couple," he says. "Just…friends."

"Oh," breathes the waitress. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have…assumed."

"Oh, it's okay. We understand," he promises. "And I'll have a coffee."

The young girl nods dumbly before turning to her. "And you, miss?"

"Uh…same. Coffee, too."

He waits until after the waitress is gone, ponytail swinging with every step, before turning back to her. "That was some reaction."

"Yeah, it, uh, caught me off guard," she shrugs.

"Why?" he asks. "I mean, we're a man and a woman, together, just the two of us, at a restaurant for dinner. It's not that big a leap."

Yeah, she knows _that._ It's why it feels so much like a date and why her heart just won't calm down.

"Are you embarrassed at the idea of being with me?"

He's teasing—she can hear it in his voice, the lilt she now recognizes easily. He _knows_ that's not it, with the time she's almost kissed him and her careful wording when she suggested they not _rush into anything_ and the way they were holding hands yesterday, like friends don't usually do.

But there's a hint of insecurity there's a hint of insecurity that has her keeping her eye roll at bay and whispering her answer.

"No. It's not that. It's…something else."

He doesn't push her, just nods his head quietly, eyes locked on hers.

It's not that she doesn't want to be with him, that she's embarrassed at the idea, that she wants to keep him from climbing her walls or tearing them down.

It's that, when he looks at her the way he's looking at her now, she doesn't care about any of that, because all she _really_ wants to do is kiss him.

* * *

She's beautiful.

Her hair is down today, curled and cascading over her shoulders. And the top she's wearing brings out the flecks of gold in her eyes. Her cheeks are pink and her lips curled into the tiniest of smiles and he can't remember the last time he _didn't_ want to kiss her.

He watches as her eyes skim across the menu, her lip pinched between her teeth in concentration.

The lip biting doesn't help the wanting to kiss her issue.

When the waitress come back for their orders, he's barely even looked at his own menu, so he orders whatever's printed on the front page without thought.

She shoots him a look, confused and curious, most likely because he never even opened the menu. He just shrugs, smiling, because telling her he was thinking about kissing her and staring at her lips instead of choosing what to eat really doesn't seem like an option right now, not on this non-date.

They don't talk much over dinner. She makes the most sinful sounds as she eats, wiping away any possibility of coherent thought, much less conversation. But the silence is comfortable and warm and he can't remember anything so simple ever being so enjoyable.

Whatever it is he ordered is good, but the company is much better.

She pays, reminding him that tonight was supposed to be her treat, in exchange for lunch yesterday. On any other day, he would argue that she already paid for the movie, but the smile on her face has him staying silent until the waitress is gone again, and Beckett has the receipt in her hand.

"Ready to go?" she asks.

He nods. "I'll walk you home?"

Her smile is shy, her nod ever so slight, but both are there all the same.

He stands before she does and walks around the table, her gaze locked on him. Confused and curious all over again, as he reaches behind her and pulls her jacket from the back of her chair.

She stares at him for a long second before standing in front of him, holding her arms out behind her. Permission. She's giving him permission, which he happily accepts.

His hands brush over her bare skin as he slips the jacket up her arms to settle it over her shoulders.

She shivers. He doubts it's because she's cold.

His fingers twitch near the collar. He wants to sweep the hair away from her neck and press a kiss to her pulse, or wrap his arms around her waist and smudge a kiss to her temple, or turn her around and press a his lips against hers.

Instead, he steps out from behind her, standing at her side instead, and lets his fingers brush against hers.

"Good?" he asks.

She nods.

He follows her out of the restaurant, onto the sidewalk. It's quiet this evening, traffic rather light as they stop at an intersection. Her face, beautiful hazel eyes staring straight ahead, is illuminated by one of the traffic lights and that smile he loves so much. The one he will never, ever get enough of.

If he could, he would snap a picture of her, but he settles for trying to capture it as a memory never to be forgotten.

It's not a date. They're still just friend. Friends with too little space between them and pinkies intertwined.

Yeah, if they want this to stay a _non-_ date–which they supposedly do—he's going to have to start talking.

"So, you like sci-fi?" he asks.

She laughs. "Did my determination to make you see this movie not give it away?"

"Oh, it did," he says. "I just never expected you to."

She looks up at him. "Never expected me to like sci-fi?"

He nods.

"Oh, well, I always have," she shrugs. "I just don't talk about it much."

"Don't want people to know about your inner nerd?" he teases, bumping his shoulder against hers.

She shakes her head, chuckling softly. "It's not that, Castle."

"Then what is it?"

Her eyes dart down to where their hands are still just barely touching, and then looks back up at him. "I don't have many friends, but you…you've already become kind of like my best friend and– Don't look so smug, Castle," she says, rolling her eyes.

"Sorry," he whispers. "It's just…a few weeks ago you absolutely hated me and now…here we are."

Her gaze falls again, back to their hands. This time, she smiles, as she slips her hand into his.

"Yeah," she whispers. "Here we are."

She falls silent, and part of him wants to ask her to finish her explanation. But, he finds himself content, walking down the sidewalk with her hand in his, again.

He doesn't want to break the spell.

She offers to walk in by herself when they reach her building's glass doors. He doesn't miss the smile she tries to hide when he tells her he doesn't mind going up with her.

They're still holding hands, anyway.

He's about to let go, her door half open, when she turns to him.

"You wanna come over tomorrow, say around one? I have an idea for what we can do," she says.

He smiles. "I would love to."

He still wants to kiss her. He has all night. All of the past two days, really. But just like last night, he squeezes her hand instead, gaze locked on hers.

This time, she squeezes back.

* * *

 **Huge thank you to adorbskatic (check her stories out) for beta-ing this chapter for me.**


	12. Chapter 12

_**oxymoron**_

* * *

 _oxymoron:_ (noun) a figure of speech in which apparently contradictory terms appear in conjunction

* * *

Okay, so maybe she should have listened to the voice inside her head telling her not to break out the DVD just yet. Or ever.

Yeah, she should never tell anyone about her love of _Nebula 9_ ever again if Castle, of all people, is standing in her living room, holding up the DVD case and _laughing_ at her.

This was a very bad idea.

She reaches out, swiping the case from between his fingers to bring it to her chest. If he's going to laugh at her, she can at least _try_ and defend herself and the show she once loved. Okay, still loves, from time to time when she gets nostalgic and watches a few episodes…or all twelve.

"You can stop laughing, you know," she mutters.

He calms down, just a bit, soft, laughing puffs of air still escaping as he tries to settle his breathing. "So, you actually liked that show?" he asks.

"I… _like_ it, yes," she whispers, tracing the seam of the DVD case with her finger. "Why is that such a surprise? We've already established that I like sci-fi. And so do you. I thought you would be a fan."

He shakes his head, waving his hand at her. "I'm a fan of _good_ sci-fi. _Star Trek, Battlestar,_ that Joss Whedon show, _Forbidden Planet._ But _Nebula 9_? No, no. It's all phony melodrama and lifeless acting," he says.

She feels her shoulders sag, arms falling to her sides. "It wasn't _just_ that," she argues. "There was…more."

"Like what?"

So much. There was so much that had her drawn to the show when she was younger, that had her attending conventions in that short, purple dress.

 _Oh,_ now that's a good idea.

"You really hate the show, Castle?" she asks.

"Well, hate is a strong word, but I certainly wouldn't watch it again," he answers, his laughter having finally died down completely.

She smiles. "Well, then, I guess you don't ever want to see me in my Lieutenant Chloe costume," she says, shrugging one shoulder as she walks by him.

He turns to face her, eyes wide. "You have a Lieutenant Chloe costume?"

Well, her plan is working.

"Well, it's from college, so it might be a little small, but yeah, it's somewhere in my closet," she answers, hiding her smile with her back to him, the DVD case pressed against her stomach.

She'll get him to watch it with her, and she'll get him to like it. Well, at least _not_ hate it.

But when she turns back to him, his smile is all too mischievous and eyes are shining with the one thing that always sparks fear within her, no matter how many times his ideas have brought smiles to her face.

"So you weren't just a fan," he says. "You were a mega-fan. I mean, you dressed up in costume."

 _Really?_ How does he always manage to turn the tables on her?

She sighs. "Castle, you're missing the point."

He turns to her again, brows furrowed this time, his arms crossed over his chest. "Oh? And what is the point?" he asks. And, dammit, he actually sounds curious, like he hasn't caught on yet.

Which means she could take a step back, takes herself off the line and pretend her point was something else completely. That she wasn't trying to tempt him into watching with the possibility of him one day seeing her in that dress she _knows_ is probably one of his favorite parts of the series.

And that she knows her legs look fantastic in.

But they're already there, standing toe to toe with the line traced between them. The difference between what they're doing now and more—and _romance_ —so minute she can barely see it most of the time.

It's no longer a question, she realizes, but an inevitability—a matter of when rather than if. And though she's tried to fight it, has tried not to rush into it, she knows one of them is going to cross the line sooner rather than later.

Really soon, if he keeps looking at her the way he does every day before he leaves.

So she can let herself step on the line without crossing it, right?

She takes a step towards him, her lips curling into a smirk. "The point is that I have a skin-tight, too short dress in my closet and if you refuse to watch this with me, you will eliminate any chances of you ever seeing me in it."

He takes a step forward, too, pushing ever so slightly into her personal space. "And if I do watch _Nebula 9_ with you, I will get to see you in this dress, one day?" he asks.

His voice has dropped to a whisper, low and breathy and he's standing so close and _fuck,_ he's going to distract her from her plan if he comes any closer…or if he keeps talking.

She shrugs, forcing a lilt to her voice. " _Maybe._ "

"Oh, no, Beckett. Maybe won't be good enough to make me watch that God-awful show," he says, stepping even closer. "I need a yes."

A yes is commitment. A yes is…

"Fine," she agrees. "If you watch all twelve episodes of _Nebula 9_ with me, I will, one day, if—" _when_ "—we're together, where my Lieutenant Chloe costume for you, okay?"

He grins, stepping away from her and why is her heart beating so quickly right now?

"Well then, we have a _Nebula 9_ marathon to watch, Beckett. Go on, put in the DVD," he says, motioning past her to the TV.

Her heart is still thundering against her ribs when she drops onto the couch with him, curling up in a ball at her end to put as much space between them as possible.

She just stepped on the line. Actually stepped on it, leaving friendship behind with the promise to one day…

Since when does she put herself on the line like that?

More importantly, since when does it thrill her rather than scare her?

* * *

The show is just as bad as he remembers. It's cheesy. It ignores the laws of physics and good storytelling. Not to mention the horrible acting on behalf of Gabriel Winters and Stephanie Frye— _didn't she get arrested for murder a couple months ago?_

It's horrible, really, and yet, as the final episode threatens to end, he finds himself wishing it wouldn't.

Because he might not like the show _at all,_ but Beckett is sitting just a few inches from him, staring at the screen like she's trying to memorize the scene. Her eyes are wide, curious, _fascinated,_ her hands crossed in her lap, fidgeting with anticipation for the final scene of the series.

There's a reason the show was cancelled after only twelve episodes. The look on her face has him forgetting it completely.

The screen goes black, and then returns to the DVD's main menu, the theme song playing loudly through the apartment. She instantly reaches to mute it. He watches as she sits back again, letting herself sink into the cushions. She's quiet. She's…open.

He takes the chance.

"You really like the show, don't you?"

He turns to him, the softest of smiles playing at the corners of her lips. "I do," she answers.

He reaches over, setting his hand down in the space between them. "Why?" he asks.

She stares at him for a moment, silent, unmoving, and he thinks he might have pushed too far, might have asked for too much. But then she sinks back again, head falling back against the cushions. That smile returns, her gaze returning to him for a second.

"You were right, okay? It was a stupid show. It was cheesy and melodramatic. I mean, a handful of academy cadets sent on a training mission and suddenly the earth gets destroyed and they're all that's left of humanity? I can understand why you hated it," she says, voice soft, almost hesitant.

"So why did you love it? Why _do_ you love it?"

She turns away from him, just a bit. "It was about leaving home for the first time, about searching for your identity and making a difference. And Lieutenant Chloe, she didn't care what anybody thought of her, and, well, when I was in college, I kinda did. I mean, she was a scientist and a warrior and that was all in spite of the way that she looked," she says, turning back to him as she speaks. "It taught me that I could do anything, that I didn't have to choose."

He smiles. "I bet it didn't hurt that you looked great in her costume?"

She blushes, cheeks turning bright pink as she turns away to hide it. "How would you know? You've never seen me in her costume."

"I will," he reminds her. "And I know because you would look great in anything."

It's sappy, too sweet. Maybe even too much, because her head zips back towards him, eyes wide as they meet his, but then she smiles—that shy little smile that he loves so much.

"Thanks," she whispers.

It falls silent for a moment, the TV still muted, her eyes locked on his, this still, silent routine they've hand over the past few days. There's nothing to say, nothing to do, but he can't look away.

She's the one that breaks the stillness, head dipping until her gaze locks on their hands, just barely touching. She reaches over settles her hand over his, her fingers curling into his palm.

"Last week, uh, Monday, when I was…upset?" she whispers.

He nods, squeezing her hand gently. "Yeah?"

"You guessed that I was going to come back here and cry myself to sleep, and you were right, but you told me to try something different, to do something that makes me happy," she continues. "You gave a bunch of examples and I…I wasn't going to listen, but I got home and crying just seemed…horrible, and it's never worked before, so…"

He reaches for her, with the hand not trapped under hers. His fingers find her hair and he tucks a strand behind her ear, letting his fingertips ghost across the shell of it, and down to her neck.

"So?"

She looks up at him, finally, her eyes wide with vulnerability almost as clear as it was that night by the fire, when she told him about her mom, about the reason for her tears.

"So I came home, ordered pizza and watched _Nebula 9_ until I fell asleep," she whispers. "It…worked. I wasn't…fixed, but the next morning, Castle, that was the easiest a morning after a breakdown had ever been."

"Do they happen often?" he asks.

She shrugs. "Not so much now, just when there's a…really painful reminder that she's gone and that the…killer was never caught," she answers. "It used to happen all the time, though, at the beginning."

He nods, just slightly to let her know he hears her. To let her know he understands.

"Do you wanna talk about it?"

She shakes her head, perking up just a bit. "No. These…meetings are supposed to be about making me happy, not letting me wallow in memories," she says. "Besides, it's getting late, you should go home."

"Trying to kick me out now?" he asks.

She tugs her lip between her teeth, shakes her head again. "No. Trying to maintain a shred of dignity." She laughs. "I already offered to wear a costume for you and admitted you were write _twice._ You have to go before I do something downright stupid."

"Well then, maybe I should stay."

She rolls her eyes. " _Castle._ "

"Fine," he relents. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

She nods, and then her eyes fall to where their hands are still resting together on the couch, entwined as they have been so much over the past few days.

He glances down at their hands, and then looks back up at her, finds her staring back at him.

His arm wraps around her, pulls her closer until her chin is resting on his shoulder, her own arms reaching up to wrap around him.

"I'll be fine, Castle," she promises, breath warm against his neck.

He smiles. "I know." And he dusts a kiss to the crown of her head.

It means something he can't say, something he can't think.

Something he can barely decipher.

* * *

She's stupidly nervous. Like, teenager going on her first date nervous and it's _stupid._

It's just Castle, after all. She's seen him almost every day for three years now, not to mention the past week. He's her _friend._ Just her friend.

Okay, so maybe a _little_ more than _just_ her friend. And maybe this is his apartment—the one she's never been to, the one he so casually mentioned she might _move into_ one day. And maybe this feels kind of, sort of, _a lot_ like a date, but still.

It doesn't warrant her heart beating _this_ quickly or her hand shaking so violently when she lifts it to knock.

It's just Castle.

The door opens completely, her hand still suspended in mid-air, her mouth half open, a greeting heavy on her tongue.

But it's not just Castle. It's Alexis.

 _Fuck._

"Miss Beckett?" she asks, her voice soft and tinged with curiosity.

It's so simple—just a normal, everyday greeting—but her mind goes blank and her throat goes dry and words really are not coming. They're staying trapped somewhere in the back of her mind instead.

Thankfully, Castle emerges from somewhere, and her sigh of relief gets caught in her throat.

"Oh," he breathes. "You're early."

She hadn't even… "Yeah, I guess. Force a habit." She shrugs.

He smiles, taking a few steps towards her and his daughter. "Well, Beckett, you know Alexis," he says, motioning to the young girl. "And Alexis, you know Miss Beckett."

Yeah, _knowing_ Alexis isn't the issue. It's everything else about this situation.

"Of course," says the red head. "I just didn't think the rumors were true."

Her jaw falls at that, eyes going wide and she's suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that she's still standing in the hallway. She crosses her arms over her chest, fingers curling around the fabric of her shirt.

"Uh, what rumors?" It's Castle, and she turns to face him. His brows are furrowed, mouth twisted in confusion and she can't help but be glad she isn't the only oblivious one.

Alexis turns to her dad, too, and shrugs. "That you guys are, like, a _thing_ ," she answers.

"A _thing_?" she asks, fists tightening where they're pressed against her sides.

"Yeah. You know, dating. They've been circling the school for weeks, but I figured I'd know," says Alexis, gaze flicking between her and Castle. "Apparently not, though."

Suddenly, she _really_ wants to disappear because this feels a lot like she's witnessing a conversation she shouldn't be witnessing, causing problems where there shouldn't be problems. Her hands curl into fists at her sides, stomach clenching against the urge to reach forward and pull the door closed.

But Castle is stepping towards her—well, in between her and Alexis. He reaches out with one hand, settles it on his daughter's shoulder. The other reaches for her, and she reaches for it without thinking.

He pulls gently, tugging her past the threshold, and Alexis closes the door behind her.

"Beckett and I aren't dating, pumpkin," he says. "Not yet, at least. And if we do, _when_ we do, you'll be one of the first to know."

She swallows, nodding along dumbly, mind stuck on the fact that he's telling his daughter about their… _situation_ like dating is an inevitability.

Which it _is,_ at this point, but _still._

Blue eyes, just like her father's, dart to her and then back up to Castle. "Okay," says Alexis. It's a whisper, soft and hesitant "Does she make you happy?"

"She does," he answers, smiling as he squeezes her hand gently.

Alexis nods slowly, and then smiles, pushing herself up onto her toes to wrap an arm around Castle's shoulders. "Okay, dad. I'll see you later," she says. "And it was good seeing you, Miss Beckett," she adds, brushing past them and reaching for the door.

She blinks when the door closes again, Alexis gone and her fingers still caught in Castle's.

"You okay?" he asks.

She nods.

"I'm sorry. I thought she would be gone before you got here, but you got here early."

She turns to look at him, finds him staring back at her. "I can't believe you…you just told her we _are_ going to date," she mumbles.

"It's the truth, isn't it?" He shrugs.

Tugging her lower lip into her mouth, she nods, lets her eyes fall to where their hands are still joined. "Yeah," she whispers. "I guess it is."

"I don't lie to my daughter, Beckett," he says. "And she deserves to know if I'm dating someone, especially you, given the circumstances."

She nods again, looking back up at him. "I guess. It just...caught me off guard." She smiles. "But, uh, everything's fine. What do you have planned today for my, uh, daily dose of Castle-induced smiles?"

He grins. "Well, I have a large collection of movies, but I was thinking a double feature of _The Killer_ and _Hard Boiled,_ " he offers. "If that's okay with you, of course."

"The bloodier the better," she responds.

He squeezes her hand again before letting it fall. "You go get comfortable on the couch. I'll get the snacks."

She waits for him to head to the kitchen before turning and actually taking in the rest of his apartment. It's…huge. There's a door to her left, bookshelves for walls slightly past that, and the stairs ahead of her let her know it gets bigger.

His words echo through her mind, the way he so off-handedly suggested she might live here one day. With him.

She blames how absolutely awe-inspiring his loft is for the fact that it doesn't seem completely impossible.

And then she pushes that thought as far back as it will go as she makes her way to the couch. She drops onto the cushions, tucking her feet under her and letting her cheek fall to rest against the soft blanket draped over the back.

He joins her within minutes, balancing too many bowls in one hand and bottle of wine and two glasses in the other.

She smiles up at him, because somehow all of this feels stupidly _right._

* * *

This movie non-date idea was a _really_ good idea.

She starts off sitting across the couch from him, reaching for the bowls between them mindlessly, staring at the screen. And then she starts sipping her wine, staring down into the glass as though trying to figure out every undertone of flavor, letting her tongue run along her lips to lick off any of the remaining red.

It's only once the first movie is finished and she's lifting the empty bowls of the couch that he realizes he watched her a _lot_ more than he watched the screen.

It doesn't seem like a bad thing.

"Ready for _Hard Boiled_?" she asks.

He nods, smiling at her as he refills her glass of wine, settles himself back down, a little closer to the middle cushion this time.

When she comes back, he notices that she does the exact same thing, her weight settling on the crack between the two cushions at her end of the couch.

It has him wanting to reach out for her, even just for her hand again, and hold her, but he doesn't.

That is, until the movie is about halfway done, and she reaches forward to set her glass down, settling back down on the middle cushion and he really can't help himself. He reaches for her, settles his hand over hers.

She turns to him, smiling sweetly.

So he does more, grows bolder as he makes a show of faking a yawn, stretching his arm out over the couch behind her. It makes her laugh, just a soft chuckle that makes his heart flutter even though he's heard it often enough by now.

When she settles her head back against his arm, though, eyes locking back on the screen, it's new. It's new and it's progress and his heart skips a beat as he forces himself not to pull her closer.

Baby steps.

He forces his gaze back to the TV screen, forces himself to actually watch at least part of these movies he suggested. But his mind stays stuck on her, hyper-aware of every time she moves, of that split second when she nuzzles her head against his arm, offering him a shy smile.

By the time the credits roll, he's given up the act, because her hip is pressed against his, her head resting on his shoulder, her hand settled on his thigh. His fingers are curled around her shoulder, combing through the soft strands of her hair as the screen goes black and she doesn't pull away.

"That was good," she whispers, and he feels her smile against him. "Thank you for suggesting them. It was a good choice."

"Much better than _Nebula 9,_ " he teases.

She slaps his leg playfully, her laughter brushing over his shoulder. "It was _not_ that bad, _and_ you got the promise of seeing me in a really short dress out of the deal," she says.

He grins. "Right. I really should stop complaining."

"You really should," she agrees.

They fall silent again, her breath warm where it just barely hits his neck, her fingers still splayed over his thigh. He reaches down, catching her hand with his as he lets his cheek fall to rest on the top of her head. His fingers are still combing though her hair.

It's…peaceful. It's right.

"I'm sorry you were caught of guard by Alexis," he whispers into her hair, the words muffled, but still audible.

"It's not your fault," she says. "I just need to show up late, like you."

He huffs. "I have not been late _once_ this week."

She pats his leg again, fingertips brushing the inside of his thigh ever so gently. "I know." He can feel her smile against him. "You're very dedicated to giving me my daily dose of Castle-induced smiles."

Her voice is so soft, words so sweet, so sincere. She's not teasing him this time, he realizes. She knows how much this means to him, how much he loves her smile.

And she might not know how deeply he cares for her or why his heart skips a beat when she slips her hand into his, but it's starting to seem more and more like she will, one day.

His heart is pounding now, and there's no way she can't hear it.

"That's because I care about you," he says. "I want to make sure your happy, healthy, doing _good,_ no matter the circumstances."

It might be too much. It might send her running, but it doesn't.

She squeezes his leg ever so gently, slipping just slightly from her position in his arms, letting him see the smile stretched across her face.

"I…should go. It's getting late and our plans for tomorrow start on the earlier side," she says.

He nods. "I'll walk you out?"

She stands then, reaching for the hand that falls from her shoulder as she tugs him from the couch, towards the doorway. He watches as she slips on her shoes, her one hand still caught in his.

It's completely involuntary, but he won't complain when the slightest of pulls on her arm has her crashing against his chest, her head nestled against his shoulder, her one arm wrapped around him.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he whispers.

She pulls away too soon, lingering just a few inches from him and _oh,_ he cannot stare at her lips right now no matter how desperately he wants to _finally_ kiss her.

So he watches as the corners of her eyes crinkle with a smile, as she pushes herself onto her toes.

"Thank you."

It's a whisper, her breath washing over his ear just as a her lips dust across his cheek.

And then she's gone, but he can still feel the ghost of her kiss lingering where her lips touched his skin.


	13. Chapter 13

_**oxymoron**_

* * *

 _oxymoron:_ (noun) a figure of speech in which apparently contradictory terms appear in conjunction

* * *

She's sitting on one of the swings when Castle shows up Wednesday morning, rocking back and forth ever so slightly as her toes dig into sand the beneath her.

"Good morning." He smiles.

She finds herself smiling back as she digs her heels into the sand. "Morning," she says. "You ready?"

He nods. "I dug my old running shoes out of my closet for this and everything."

She chuckles, standing from her swing. "Well, I'm glad. You don't want to run in bad shoes; they'll ruin your feet," she tells him, her shoulder bumping against his as she takes her place next to him. "So, do you ever run?"

"Never really saw the appeal." He shrugs.

Turning to look at the path in front of them, she smiles. "It's…fun, liberating."

"And asphyxiating," he adds.

She rolls her eyes, glancing at him again. He's smiling, despite his words, and flexing his toes against the ground. "Well then, I guess it's good for you that I cut my usual run in half just for today," she says.

"And how long is your _usual_ run?"

She smiles, bumps her shoulder against his again just to make him look at her, to see the moment panic flashes in his eyes. "Wait and see," she says, and then she's off.

She tries to slow down for the first little bit, to give him the chance to catch up and get used to the pace, but he surprises her by appearing at her side only seconds after she took off running, a smile on his face.

It doesn't take her long to figure out that he _does,_ run, or, at the very least, is fit enough to keep up.

Oh, he's going to pay for _that._

With a press of her toes against the ground, she speeds up, launching herself into her regular pace, leaving him behind. The steps are easy, the motion familiar and she forces herself to focus on the path in front of her instead of the man behind her.

Until he's next to her again, still smiling, just a tad out of breath.

He _really_ down-played his running skills, but she's not pushing herself to her max yet.

If he wants to play this game, she can, too.

She maintains that pace for a while, falling into the rhythm that's grown familiar over the years. And though she usually listens to music while running, she finds that his non-stop talking about nature and the park and the last time he went running works just as well. Not to mention how much she loves the way his shirt stretches over his shoulders with every—

Finally, they get to the fork in the path she was waiting for, and, with a grin, she darts in front of him, veering off her usual path as she forces herself to speed up.

She can play this game, and she can win.

Her legs start to burn after a while, breathing growing harder and he still hasn't caught up, still hasn't joined her with that bounce in his step and that cocky grin.

Maybe she should stop, turn back and find him, laugh at his inability to keep up.

Yeah, she should do that. She should—

She freezes, a hand suddenly curling around her waist, another settling on her hip and her instinct to turn around and punch whoever it is fades when he runs into her back.

 _Oh,_ it's Castle. And his chest is pressed against her back, his hips flush against hers.

And it's _electric._

The air escapes her as she goes still, tries to ignore the rush of heat when his hand trails from her waist to her hip, when she feels his breath wash across her nape.

His thumb slips under the fabric of her tank top, traces a circle into her skin. She sinks back, sinks into him against her will, against her better judgement.

He shouldn't be touching her like this, shouldn't be pressed up against her like this, but he squeezes her hips and her lips part on a silent gasp and she doesn't have the willpower to push him away.

Why should she, if just this feels so _good_?

"I, uh, can apparently run better than I thought I could," he whispers, his breath warm against her neck.

"Apparently," she manages, even though she can barely breathe.

If he wants an intelligent conversation, he is going to have to take his hands off her and put _much_ more distance between them.

But he doesn't do that. He slips his hands out from under her shirt as his palms drag upwards, curl around her waist instead of her hips. His thumbs are brushing against the base of her ribcage, fingertips scraping against her shirt.

He has to _stop_ or she will not be responsible for her actions.

Because if they weren't in a public park, she probably would have thrown caution to the wind by now, probably would have kissed him and turned the _when_ they've been throwing around lately into a _now._

"What do you say we walk the rest of the way?" he suggests. "We could stop and get coffee before going home?"

She nods dumbly, eyes falling closed for just a second.

And then he's gone, pulling away like he's unaffected and she's standing here on shaky knees trying to maintain _some_ self-control, fighting the heat that's pooled low in her belly.

He's already walking away, an infuriating bounce in his step and she forces herself to join him, forces herself to suck in a breath and just follow him.

To forget how good his hands feel when he touches her.

She's still trying to catch her breath when she catches up to him, still trying to ignore the tingling where his hands had touched.

But he's smiling at her, still so joyfully unaffected. "You know," he says, "I'm really starting to see the appeal in this running thing."

She forces a smile, nods her head.

She's really starting to see the asphyxiating side of this running thing, and it has nothing to do with the actual run.

* * *

He sinks back in his seat as she does the same, her toes just barely bumping his under the table. He watches as her fingers curl around the base of her beer bottle, as she takes a sip, the corners of her mouth curling upwards just a bit.

"So," she says, "The Old Haunt? Why here?" Curiosity shines in her eyes, widened ever so slightly.

He shrugs one shoulder. "I used to come here all the time and figured it was time to come back," he answers. "Why? If you don't like it, we can leave."

Shaking her head, she laughs so softly he can barely hear her. "No. I like it. It's nice, authentic, seems to have a history," she says. "I was just curious." Her gaze meets his. "You said you used to come here all the time. Why'd you stop?"

"Alexis was born," he answers. "Meredith was MIA most of the time—she still is. I just wanted to be a good dad."

Her hand settles over his suddenly, and he looks up to see her leaning against the edge of the table. She squeezes his fingers, gently, smiles at him for just a second.

"You are, Castle," she says, words just barely audible. "You're a great dad."

The smile tugs at his cheeks, his heart skipping a beat at the sincerity so evident in her words.

Flipping his hand under hers, he squeezes her fingers just like she did his.

"Thank you," he whispers.

Her eyes fall, landing on the table top. The thumb of her free hand is still tracing the top of her bottle. "How hard was it— _is_ it?" she asks, words almost hesitant. "Raising Alexis on your own, I mean."

"Hard," he answers. "You have no idea how hard it is, Kate, to know that this one person is depending on _you_ for everything. I mean, it's so scary sometimes. I lost track of her while shopping once and I almost had a heart attack, I was running around looking for her like a crazy person. And— Sorry. These…meetings are supposed to be about you."

She shakes her head, her grip on his hand tightening. "You've been here for me, have listened to my stories. I want to hear about you," she says. "And what?"

He stares at her, blinks.

She wants to know about _him,_ just as much as he wants to know about her, and it has his heart stuttering. Because this isn't wanting to kiss him, wanting just the physical. No, she wants the baggage, too, the good and the bad and the trust and he suddenly can't remember why he's not kissing her.

"So, Castle?" she says. "If you don't want to talk about it, we can stop. I just…wanted to know."

Right, that's why.

He smiles, shaking his head. "No, no, it's fine."

Then, he lets his eyes fall closed. He can still picture Alexis as a newborn, clear as day, the tiny little girl they handed to him. Her wide blue eyes that day he lost her at the mall, the quivering of her lip when she saw him and ran into his arms. The smile on her face as she curls up on the lounge chairs outside at the Hamptons as she stares at the stars.

"It's hard," he says, "and it's scary, but you know what's harder? Scarier?"

She hums, and he opens his eyes to see her tilting her head in curiosity. "What?" she asks.

"Knowing she's growing up, that she'll be gone in just a couple years, that she _doesn't_ depend on me for everything anymore," he answers. "Because no matter how hard it is to be a parent, Kate, it's also the most rewarding thing anyone can ever do."

She smiles ever so slightly. "I can only imagine."

"Well, one day, you'll know what I mean."

The words escape before he can stop them, tumbling from his lips without his permission and he almost slaps a hand over his mouth when her eyes go wide. Instead, he reaches for his beer bottle and takes a sip, his gaze falling to where they're hands are still entwined on the tabletop.

He's sure she'd make a great mother. He's also sure now is _not_ the time to talk about it.

He swallows thickly, forcing both his drink and the lump in his throat back. Setting the bottle down on the table, he leans back in the booth.

"So, you, uh, wanted to know about the history of this place?" he asks, his voice just slightly shaky.

She smiles back at him, like a silent thanks for the change of subject, and nods. "Yeah. I mean, there has to be some story behind it, right?"

"Oh, yeah. It was originally a blacksmith's shop, and then became a brothel. It only became a part during the Prohibition, as a speakeasy," he tells her.

Her eyes are shining now. It reminds him of the fire he saw during their hike back on the camping trip. "How do you know all this?" she asks.

"I told you," he says, "I used to come here all the time. In fact, I wrote most of my first book here."

Her eyes widen, mouth falling open. "You wrote _In a Hail of Bullets_ here?"

His jaw drops, too, lips curling upwards. The moment her words dawn on her, she slaps a hand over her mouth, eyes wide now in panic rather than awe.

But still, she _said_ it.

"You know what my first book is?" he asks, excitement seeping into every word.

She shrugs. He imagines she's going for nonchalant, but her eyes are still wide, giving her away. "We're co-workers and friends, is it really that shocking?" she counters, the quiver in her voice ever so slight.

"Come on, Beckett, it's _In a Hail of Bullets_. Nobody reads that. If you looked me up, you would have found a ton about the Derrick Storm series, not that," he tells her, and even in the dim lighting of the bar, he can see her cheeks turn pink. "Have you read my books?"

She tugs her lower lip between her teeth, eyes falling. "My mom used to love them," she whispers. "And I just…started reading them after she died. They're good."

 _Oh._ Yeah, time to change the subject again.

He squeezes her hand, drawing her gaze back to his. "Do you want to know more about this place?" he  
asks.

Her brows furrow. "More?"

Nodding his head, he smiles. "Yeah," he says. He pushes himself up from his seat, tugging her with  
him. "Come on, I'll show you."

"What?" she asks, as he's already pulling her deeper into the building. "Castle, where are we going?"

He turns to face her, quirking a smile. "To my office," he explains. "I haven't really gotten to see  
it since they finished renovating last week."

"Your _office_?"

"Yeah?" he offers. "Oh, did I forget to mention I own the place?"

Her jaw falls open and she lets out an incredulous laugh, but she follows him into his basement  
office all the same.

* * *

Friday evening, he finds himself sitting next to her on the couch, eating Chinese food, listening to the credit music from the random movie they decided to watch, when she suddenly turns to him.

She pulls her legs underneath her, propping up her elbow on the back of the couch, her head falling to rest in her palm. Her teeth scrape over her lower lip, eyes flicking to the space between them before meeting his again.

"Can I ask you something?" she whispers.

He reaches over, curls his hand around her knee. "Of course you can. You can ask me anything, Kate," he tells her.

She nods, slow, hesitant, gaze losing focus as she gets lost in thought for just a minute. Then, she blinks, eyes locking on his again. "Yesterday, at The Old Haunt, you were so passionate about your writing. I mean, anyone willing to listen could tell that it's what you love, no matter how much you try to make it seem like it isn't," she says.

"Yeah, I love to write," he confirms, squeezing her leg gently. "What about it?"

She bites at her lip again before letting out a sigh. "If you love writing so much, why did you become a teacher? Wouldn't that just give you less time to write?" she asks, her voice just barely audible and yet laced with curiosity.

He sighs, turning towards her to mirror her position, his hand staying on her knee. "I told you, Kate, I don't want to get into this until you feel you can tell me why you decided to teach," he responds.

"I know," she says. "That's why I'm asking."

He feels his eyes widen, his heart flutter as it skips a beat.

"Okay then," he says with a slight nod. "I became a teacher because I wasn't writing. I'd just killed off Derrick Storm, and I just…couldn't write, but I love writing. So, when I heard the school needed an English teacher, I decided to do that, instead. I figured that, if I couldn't write, the least I could do is teach others to love it, too."

She smiles, just the slightest upturn of her lips. "That's sweet," she whispers, and her free hand falls to rest over his. "Have you written anything since?"

 _Oh,_ that's a dangerous question, because of course he has. He has a manuscript half-written, all based on her. And he wants to tell her the truth, but he's really not sure she wants to hear it.

Kate Beckett is a private person, and he created a character based on what little he was privileged enough to know about her. She probably, very, very likely will not like that.

"I didn't for a long time," he says, keeping his words slow, careful. "But I started something recently."

"You did?" she asks, voice lilted with joy. He nods, and she sinks back, just a bit. "Are you going to keep teaching, if your writing picks up again?"

There's something in her voice that he can't quite identify, that has him tightening his grip on the leg.

"I think so," he answers. "I've grown to love teaching, too. Plus, I'd still get to see you every day."

She smiles, rolling her eyes at him.

He almost doesn't want to ask, doesn't want to wipe the smile off her face or send her spiraling into bad memories. He squeezes her hand gently, swallowing back the question as her gaze meets his again.

"You probably want to hear my story now, right?" she whispers.

"You don't have to tell me, if you don't want to," he says, tightening his grip on her fingers. "I told you mine, Beckett, but if you don't want to…"

She shakes her head. "No, I want to. I just…I've never really told anyone before."

That has his breath catching in his throat, the hand not holding hers reaching out to brush a strand of her hair from her face. His fingers curl around the shell of her ear, and he watches as she pulls her lower lip into her mouth.

"Well, if you want to tell me, Kate," he whispers, his thumb brushing the line of her jaw, "I'm here to listen."

She nods, taking a deep breath as if trying to steel herself for the story. He squeezes her hand again, waits as her eyes fall closed and slowly open again.

"When my mom was killed, I was enrolled in pre-law at Stanford. I wanted to be a lawyer, like her and my dad, but after she died, I dropped out, I gave up, I got _really_ depressed and my dad…he turned to alcohol," she tells him. Her gaze falls to her wrist. "I, uh, wear his watch sometimes, just not at the school and I haven't been…with you, but he's sober now, has been for about eight years."

He nods, his hand falling from where it lingers next to her face to cradle her hand. He brushes the bones protruding at her wrists with his fingers.

She sighs. "Anyway, I thought about going back to law school, here in New York, but I just…couldn't. I knew I would never be as good as her and she was…gone."

He looks back up at her, remembers that fire that can burn in her eyes. She would have been a great lawyer, but he doesn't tell her that.

"So I thought about becoming a cop, trying to catch her killer and get justice for others. I almost went through with it, Castle, but…I was like an addict. I _am_ like an addict, a recovering one, now," she continues. Tears are welling in the corners of her eyes now. He fights the urge to wipe them away. "I was _so_ obsessed with wanting her killer caught, I put that above everything else, including my own health, my happiness. My therapist thought it would be a terrible idea for me to enable myself like that, so I smartened up, looked into other options. I probably would have been a pretty bad cop, anyway."

No, she would have been a good cop, a _really_ good cop, always determined to get justice for those who lost someone, to give people what she didn't get.

He forces those words back, too.

"Why English?" he asks instead.

She shrugs. "I looked at what I liked to do, things that didn't involve criminals and murder and English was the best option. I'd always loved to read, and I always did great in English class," she answers. "I mean, it's not a passion like you have, but I like studying it."

He smiles, nods his head ever so slightly. "And teaching?"

She chuckles, even though her eyes are still watering, a single tear rolling down her cheek. "There's only so much you can do with an English degree, and teaching seemed like the best one for me," she says.

"Do you ever regret it?" he asks.

"Only on really bad days," she whispers. "But not really. I like teaching, no matter how annoying the students, and fellow teachers can be."

She grins, wiping at her face as he leans back, presses his hand against his chest.

"Beckett, I'm _wounded._ Here I thought we were passed that."

Laughing, she pushes herself off the couch. "Who said I was talking about you?" she says. "Mr. Davidson's constant flirting gets _really_ annoying sometimes."

And then she's walking away, leaving him amazed.

She's deep, her story so incredible, her strength awe-inspiring and yet she can still laugh at him, can still offer him that smile or teasing smirk, leave him reeling.

She's extraordinary.

He might be in love with her.

* * *

She smooths down the front of her dress, adjusts her hair one last time, pursing her lips to check her lip gloss.

Her heart thunders in her chest, butterflies flooding her stomach. She has to consciously suck in every breath to keep the nerves from getting the best of her. And, well, this like the fifth time she's checked her reflection since she slipped into the little black dress she's wearing.

But it's okay to be nervous, right?

She is about to take Castle out on a date, after all.

With a sigh, she forces herself to turn away from the mirror. She grabs her purse from where it's sitting on her bed before leaving the bedroom, heading for the door.

Her head keeps telling her this might be a very bad idea, but her heart keeps reminding her that it could also be a _really_ good one.

Castle makes her smile, makes her laugh, makes her _happy._

Her dad noticed instantly. This morning, at lunch, his smile had widened as soon as a he saw her, a mischievous glint she hasn't seen in years lighting up his eyes. _Well, you look happy,_ he had said. _Is their finally someone special in my Katie's life?_

Her blush had given her away instantly.

So she had told her dad everything, from the story of that day Castle suddenly decided they should be friends to the night at The Old Haunt, to the fact that she told him about her mother, and he was there for her instead of running away.

 _And you and Castle, you guys aren't dating?_ her dad had asked.

She had shaken her head. _Not yet. We're just…friends, waiting for the right time to…be more._

Her father had smiled at her, reached over to settle his hand over hers like he did when she was a little girl. _Katie,_ he had whispered, _it sounds to me like that time is already here._

She can still feel the way her heart was pounding when he said it, when she realized that he was _right,_ that there was no reason for and Castle to not be more. She wanted him, wanted to be with him, and she knew he wanted to be with her, too. They even had Alexis' blessing.

And he makes her happy. Actually, genuinely happy.

She hasn't been this happy in _years._

Biting at her lip to keep the stupidly giddy smile at bay, she steps into a cab, gives Castle's address to the driver.

Butterflies flooded her stomach a long time ago, and her pulse hasn't calmed since her dad opened her eyes to the truth. She fidgets with the strap of her purse and the hemline of her dress, twisting in her seat in a feeble attempt to get comfortable.

He has _no_ idea.

Well, he knows that's she's coming over. They planned that yesterday before he left her place. He just doesn't know she's taking him out…on a date.

She probably should have told him, but this is Castle. He'll appreciate the surprise.

Besides, she has a feeling that, had she called to actually ask him, she would have ended up calling the whole thing off and opting for a movie non-date at his place.

Yeah, he'll definitely prefer it this way.

The cab comes to a stop, and she pays the driver as quickly as possible, climbing out, onto the sidewalk. His building seems just as intimidating as the first time she was here, full of possibility for joy as much as grief and she swallows thickly, clutching at her purse.

There's really no going back now.

She steps forward, into his building. The doorman smiles at her and greets her by name, making her cheeks burn more than they already were. He informs her that Castle is up in his apartment, tells her to have fun, a smile on his face.

She finds herself smiling back, thanking him quietly as she heads for the elevator.

The ride up to his floor is spent alone, the lift otherwise empty. She stares at her reflection in the elevator doors. She tugs the straps of her dress farther on her shoulders and adjusts the neckline even though it already sits perfectly. Her fingers curl tightly around her strap of her purse as she fights the urge to fix her hair again.

He's called her beautiful when she was wearing jeans a top, her hair down. He won't care about whether or not her bun is perfect or if the strap of her short, tight dress is slightly out of place.

She sighs, shaking her head at herself, as the elevator dings and the doors slide open in front of her.

It's scary, overwhelming when she steps off the lift and into the hallway, the corner leading to his door visible from where she stands.

She forces a deep breath in a feeble attempt at calming her racing heart.

All she needs to do is knock on his door and ask him out, tell him they have plans for tonight. Tell him that she's taking him out on a date. And he'll be happy.

She can make him happy, just like he does for her on a daily basis.

She can do this.

Sucking in another deep breath, she reaches down and tugs at the hem of her dress, adjusts the neckline and the straps one more time as she stares at his door.

And then she reaches up and knocks.


	14. Chapter 14

_**oxymoron**_

* * *

 _oxymoron:_ (noun) a figure of speech in which apparently contradictory terms appear in conjunction

* * *

She can feel herself buzzing with it, with nerves, butterflies rampant in her stomach, head spinning with endless possibilities of how this could go wrong, or so, _so_ right.

She clutches at the strap of her purse, keeps tugging the hem of her dress down and the neckline up in an endless cycle that has no point. Her fingers itch to adjust her hair, to fidget nervously with the pins she's already placed and replaced too many times to count, and just as she's about to give in, the door opens.

She freezes, eyes wide and he stares, shock etched across his features as he takes her in.

His gaze drifts across her body, from the soft ringlets of hair framing her face to the black straps of her shoes. He lingers at the small of her waist, at where the neckline dips between her breasts, at where her teeth are digging into her lower lip. And she watches as his eyes flash with joy and admiration, with appreciation and an undertone of confusion before his gaze meets hers again.

"Kate?"

She smiles shyly, her cheeks lighting afire as she looks away for just a moment.

This is unfamiliar. It's new and it's scary. She's never taken the first step, she's never been the one to cross the line, with anybody, no matter how tempting.

And here she is, standing outside his door, surprising him with a date.

Yeah, there's definitely a lump in her throat, and any words she could say right now, any way she could explain why she's here and what she wants from him, _with_ him, are trapped behind it.

He still has no answer, but he reaches forward, his hand curling around her elbow and he pulls gently. "Please, come in," he says.

She does, stepping across the threshold on shaky legs, lingering in the entryway as he closes the door behind them and presses his back against it.

"So…?"

She blinks at the ground and then looks up at him again, finds him staring back at her with furrowed brows, that same mix of confusion and joy swirling in his eyes.

He's happy to see her.

She sucks in a deep breath, lets it out slowly. "I know we, uh, planned for another movie night here, but I was thinking we could…do something else?" It comes out as a question, and she mentally slaps herself.

But he's still staring at her, eyes wide as he takes in her attire once again. "Like…what?" he asks.

She's pretty sure he already knows.

And yet there's a smile breaking out across her face, a stupidly juvenile stutter of her heart at the concept of having surprised him, at having succeeded.

"I'm going to take you out on a date."

His eyes go impossibly wider, his mouth falling open and insecurity blooms in her chest, strange and familiar all at once.

The lump in her throat is back, even larger than before and she forces it back, clutching at her purse once again. Her teeth dig into her lip _hard,_ and his gaze flicks from her eyes to her mouth, and then back up again.

He blinks once, shakes his head quickly. "You want to take me out…on an actual date?" he asks.

She can't be imagining the awe in his voice, or the slight upturn on his lips, or the hopeful glint in his eyes as he waits for an answer.

"Yes," she says, her own smile returning, wide and happy and sure. "I want to take you out on a date, Castle. So go get ready, I'll wait."

This time, if comes out as an order, not as a question and her back straightens with pride.

"Okay," he says. And he grins, a teasing glint sparking in his eye. "You could…join me."

She reaches forward, shoving at his shoulder as a laugh breaks through her lips. "Go get ready. _Alone._ I'll be waiting," she tells him.

He's smiling as he walks away, telling her to make herself comfortable, promising that Alexis is out with friends and his mother is out with a _friend._ And yet she stands in the entrance until after he disappears behind a closed door, already pulling at the hem of his shirt.

He comes back out just a few minutes later, wearing a suit, a shirt that brings out the brilliant blue of his eyes, a smile still stretched across his face.

"So, where are we going?"

She grins. "It's a surprise," she tells him.

"Oh? Because the date itself wasn't surprise enough?"

That insecurity is back, washing over her, making her hands curl into fists, her toes digging into the soles of her shoes. Her heart is still racing, and she silently wonders if it ever slowed down.

He must notice, though, because he reaches for her, his fingers curling around her shoulder, his thumb tracing the sharp line of her clavicle. It draws her gaze back up, her eyes locking on his.

"Was it too much?" she whispers. "I should have called, asked…"

"It's perfect," he interrupts.

She feels her eyes widen as her mouth clamps shut, the rest of her apology caught behind her teeth.

He squeezes her shoulder. "I mean, I feel like this isn't something you usually do, but you know me, Beckett. I happen to _really_ like surprises," he tells her. "So, if you want to surprise me, I'll smile and annoy you with constant questions, okay?"

A chuckles escapes her, her head dipping. "I don't know, Castle. If you're going to annoy me _that_ much, I might have to rethink this whole surprising you thing," she says.

Dramatically, pressing his lips into a thin line, he straightens his spine. "Okay. Okay, I'll be good," he promises, drawing another laugh from her throat. He relaxes, letting his shoulders fall, an easy smile washing across his features as he holds one arm out to her. "So, it's a surprise, I know that, but can I at least escort you downstairs?"

She glances at his arm for a second before looping hers through it, smiling up at him. "I'd like that."

Her head falls against his shoulder when they're in the elevator, Castle rambling about how he will absolutely _not_ ask questions. It makes her laugh more than it probably should.

So far, so good.

* * *

He never imagined their first date going quite like this. Actually, he never imagined it going like this at all.

When he did picture it, they were in a restaurant much like this one, and she looked as beautiful as she does today. But they would be laughing over dinner, or exchanging stories of their past, maybe even wishes for their future. He would hold her hand at some point, squeeze her fingers and tell her he was having a great time.

But that's not how it's going at all.

They're at a restaurant, a small, and yet fancy Italian place she chose. And she looks absolutely stunning in the black dress that hugs her chest, with her hair pulled back the way it is, revealing the column of her neck, so very tempting.

But they're not talking. At all.

He glances up at her again, drawing his gaze away from his plate. She's staring at her own, stabbing aimlessly at her pasta, twirling her fork with no intention of taking a bit.

Well, this is awkward.

It's the last thing he expected. After spending the past week together, he really thought tonight would go perfectly, be just another day together, but this time a day with a label, with a name, with a purpose.

They crossed the line, stepped over it…and now they're not talking.

Apparently, most first date conversations are things they've already covered. Tales from work, stories about family and friends, the trivial thinks they've passed long ago.

He thought it would make things easier, already knowing each other so well.

But they're silent and awkward, sneaking glances at each other from across the table like teenagers with a crush.

Apparently, it hasn't made things easier at all.

He reaches for his glass and takes a tiny sip of wine, his eyes falling from her face, again, to lock on the empty basket sitting between them. And then he grabs his fork, pokes at his own plate of pasta the way she is, twirling his fork in the noodles before actually taking a bite.

He's pretty sure it's the first bite either of them have taken in a good five minutes.

Glancing up again, he finds her looking back at him, and when his eyes meet hers, he half expects her to look away. But she doesn't. Instead, her lips curl into the slightest of smiles, eyes sparkling as they lock on the corner of his mouth.

"What?"

She drops her fork, the metal clinking against the glass of her plate, and motions to him. "You have sauce…" she says, waving her hand slightly.

"Oh," he breathes, already reaching for his napkin, fumbling with it as he dabs it against his cheek with as much grace as a toddler.

She laughs this time, just a slight chuckle as her gaze falls from his again. Her fingers curl around her fork, and he watches as she starts stabbing her food again, as she brings a single noodle to her mouth and eats it as slowly as possible.

He finds himself reaching for his wine, again, taking yet another tiny sip.

And…they're back to awkward.

With a sigh, he sets his glass back down, reaches across the table to rest his hand over hers. It forces her to drop the fork and look back up at him, lets him see the guilt shining in her eyes.

"Well," she mumbles, "this was a bust."

He shrugs one shoulder, curling his fingers tighter around hers. "I wouldn't call it a bust," he says.

"Oh?" she asks, and though she still looks like she feels guilty for all this, her eyes light up with humor. "Is sitting at a table, barely eating and not saying a word your idea of a great first date, Castle?"

He laughs, so softly he can barely hear it. "I never said it was great. I said it wasn't a bust," he corrects. "And we spoke to each other."

"I don't think asking you what you were ordering and telling you you had sauce on your face counts," she says.

"True," he agrees with a slight nod of his head. "But it still wasn't a bust."

She shakes her head, tries to pull her hand from his, but he refuses to let go. "You don't have to pretend for my sake, Castle," she mumbles. "I know it was a horrible date, a horrible idea."

"Hey! No, don't say that." He squeezes her hand. "This was a great idea. You pushed us over the line, Kate, into new territory. Now, we just have to find our way."

She bites at her lip, eyes still locked on the table between them. He can still see the pain in them, the slightest hint of regret that he wants— _needs_ —to wash away.

"You know, maybe this just isn't the right place," he says.

That has her looking up at him, eyes wide, dark with even more regret as she opens her mouth. He knows it's an apology that's on the tip of her tongue.

He keeps talking before she can say a word.

"Don't get me wrong. The food is great, the atmosphere is great and I'd love to come back someday." He tightens his grip on her fingers. "But what if it's just not the right place for our _first_ date?"

"You want to blame the restaurant for the fact that we couldn't think of anything to talk about?" she asks, brows raised now, a smile twisting at her lips.

He shrugs. "There's only one way to find out, right?"

"Oh?" she breathes. "And what would that be?"

He squeezes her hand one more time, leaning towards her despite the table between them. His mouth curling into a smile that he knows reaches his eyes.

"We have to try going somewhere else," he tells her. "So, if you're not too hungry, I think we should get the bill and leave, try doing something else and seeing if it's as awkward."

Her gaze falls, doubt creasing at her brow, before she looks back up at him. "You really think that could work?"

His smile widens. "Let me take you somewhere, Kate," he says.

She does.

* * *

It really was a bust, an epic failure of a first date.

And yet here she is, her arm looped through his again as he leads her to some unidentified location and the awkwardness seems to have dissipated. The silence is no longer thick between them, like a barrier too large to simply overcome.

Now, it seems welcome, comfortable and familiar.

This is the version of _them_ she's grown to really like.

She squeezes his arm as he turns, leading her across one of the city's many streets. It's quiet now, traffic light since rush hour passed. She follows without really checking the intersection, her cheek pressed against his shoulder.

"We're here," he says, his voice low, a whisper.

She blinks, forces her vision into focus. In front of them is a park, a children's park with playground equipment and benches, and a swing set, which he's leading her to.

"A park?" she asks. "Why here?"

He shrugs. "I used to bring Alexis here all the time," he answers.

She rolls her eyes. "And that makes it the perfect place for a date?"

He looks down at her, reaching over with his free hand to rest his palm over her fingers. "There's more reasoning behind it, but it's kinda sappy and poetic and doesn't seem like your thing," he says.

She shrugs. "It's not like this date could get any more awkward, right?" she offers.

"Well then…I consider the park a place for fun and laughter," he says, a smile breaking across his face, "and that's exactly what I want to give to you. I want you to have fun with me, Beckett, and I want to make your laugh."

Her cheeks burn with a blush she hopes the darkness that has fallen over the city will hide. She squeezes his arm gently, tilting her chin upwards to look him in the yes. "You do," she says. "Nobody has ever been able to…make me happy…the way you do."

He squeezes her fingers, and she looks ahead again to find the swings right in front of them. He releases her slowly before heading to sit on the one nearest him. She takes the hint, drops onto the other one, hands curling tightly around the chains.

Her chin hits her chest, eyes locking on where the sand beneath her feet fades into the green of the grass. She digs her heels into the sand, ignoring the grains that slip into her shoes, and pushes herself back, lets herself rock forward ever so gently. Swaying, back and forth, until she finally builds up the courage to look at him again.

"I really thought tonight was going to go better…was going to be great," she mumbles.

He smiles. "It should have been, all things considered," he says. "But I have a few theories as to why it wasn't."

"You do?" she asks, brows lifting.

He nods. "I do."

"Care to share?"

It's him who looks away this time, but he looks straight ahead, across the street at where tall buildings once again form the city, out of this park that seems oddly out of place.

"My first theory is that it was the pressure. A _first date,_ sounds so big and important, no matter how well we already get along," he says. She nods, even though he's not looking at her. "I think we were both kind of scared we would mess it up, so scared, in fact, that we _did_ mess it up."

It makes sense. She's felt jittery all day, ever since she decided to show up at her door, and over dinner, everything she wanted to say was held back, out of fear that she would sounds stupid…or desperate.

Yeah, it definitely makes sense.

She swallows. "Do you…have another one?"

He turns to face her now, gaze serious. "I do," he says. "But it's kind of…sentimental."

 _Oh._

It might be risky, but she forces a smile onto her face. "Tell me."

His eyes widen, just a sliver, his lips parting on a breath. "Okay," he breathes. "I think the date wasn't all that successful because that…it's not what we look for from each other, Kate."

Her brows furrow, lips twisting in confusion, but before she can ask, he explains.

"You and I, we're friends, and we're…attracted to each other."

It's hesitant, like he wants to make sure he's not wrong. She nods, a smile curling as her mouth again as her teeth dig into her lip. It makes him smile, too.

"Okay," he says. "So, we're friends, and we're attracted to each other, but that, Kate, getting all dressed up and making small talk, that's not us."

"You mean, actually going on a date?"

He shrugs. "Sort of. But not in a bad way," he tells her. "I mean, we have fun together, doing little things like watching movies we've seen before and running through Central Park. And when we're doing those things, Kate, I know I have the best time."

She does, too, but the words get caught on the tip of her tongue as he leans towards her, swaying so he's closer.

"I love spending time with you," he says. "I love what we have now, and if I'm being honest, I don't think we need to go on big, fancy dates to be in a relationship."

Her mouth feels dry, her eyes wide and locked on his. "We don't?"

"No," he breathes. "We enjoy each other's company. We have fun together. We get along. We're attracted to each other. I say we're already almost there."

She swallows again, forcing back the lump in her throat. "What do we need to do…to get there?" she asks, the words so soft she barely hears them.

But he's leaning even closer, and she finds herself swinging closer to him.

He's _right there,_ only a few inches away, his lips parted around words still unspoken, his gaze locked firmly on hers.

"A kiss…would be a good place to start," he whispers.

Yeah, she likes that idea.

So she kisses him, presses her lips gently against his, her weight lifting off the swing as her hand lands on his cheek. He reaches for her, his hands curling around her waist, pulling her close even as his lips stay gentle, just the sweetest press of his mouth to hers.

It's soft. It's loving. It's _perfect._

* * *

He walks her home afterwards, her fingers caught in his, the line of her body pressed tightly against his side, the ghost of her kiss lingering on his lips.

And he probably _shouldn't_ be thinking about how perfectly her lips pressed against his, how she had let her tongue sweep across the seam of her mouth before pulling away with shining eyes and a smile.

She's still pressed up against him when they step onto the elevator, even after she offered to say goodbye at the door and save him a trip upstairs. An offer he denied because he doesn't want to say goodbye, doesn't want to let her go after everything went from going so unbelievably wrong to so very _right._

He wants more—from her, _with her._

He doesn't want to let her go, doesn't want to stop thinking about how that kiss could have escalated, how he wanted to pull her against him and take her breath away with the swipe of his tongue against hers.

But her hand slips from within his, space filling the distance between them when they reach her door. She fishes her keys out of her purse, fumbles with them as she unlocks the door, pushes against it so it's just barely open.

Then she's turning towards him, her eyes meeting his and _oh,_ her eyes are _dark,_ her lip pulled between her teeth and he can't help but wonder if her thoughts in any way mirror his.

If she wants him as much as he wants her.

He steps closer to her, unintentional and instinctual but she doesn't step back, just keeps staring him down, so he doesn't dare pull back.

They stepped over the line between friendship and more when she showed up at his door and asked him out, when she kissed him on the swings. Now, there's another line between them, and he doubts it'll take them long to cross this one.

"Thank you," she finally whispers. She's so close now that her warm breath coats his face, mingles with his own in the inches between them. "For, uh, salvaging our date."

"It was my pleasure," he responds, his voice just as soft as hers. "Should I…go?"

"Yeah, sure," she breathes. The way she leans towards him, the tip of her nose just barely bumping against the tip of his, gives her away.

She doesn't want him to leave anymore than he wants to go.

So he leans even closer, so she can feel the brush of his lips against hers when he speaks. "Just one more…"

Her hands curl around his neck, pulling him down to her so his parted lips press hard against hers. His hands find her hips as her tongue slides against his, as her hands knot in his hair, attempt to pull him impossibly closer.

The next thing he knows, he's pressed against her door, her chest pressed against his, her nails digging into his shoulders. His hands splay across her sides, holding her against him as he sucks her bottom lip into his mouth and draws a moan from her throat, her body shaking as a shiver runs up her spine.

It lights him afire, heat pooling in his gut.

He grips at her hips, pressing himself against her as he flips them, pushing her up against the door in his place.

His lips part from hers, leaving them both panting for a split second while her eyes slide open, dark and hooded and so very enticing. He knots his fingers through her hair, ruining the careful updo as he pulls her head back, his lips finding the sharp line of her neck, the spot right below her ear.

She groans, her grip on his shoulders tightening.

He peppers kisses down her neck until he finds her jumping pulse, his teeth scraping over her sensitive skin.

" _Castle,_ " she gasps, her hips rocking forward, pressing hard against his.

He wedges a thigh between her legs, feels her press down on it, her hips still rocking ever so slightly. His response in a breath against her neck, against the sharp angle of her jaw. "What?"

She groans, again. "We…we _shouldn't,_ " she breathes, even though she's making no move to push him away.

If anything, she tilts her head, offers him better access to her neck as his hand trail down to cup her ass, to hold her against him, to still her movements against his thigh.

"Why not?"

She sighs against him, tight shoulders sagging ever so slightly. "I want this," she says. "I _really_ want this. You. I want you."

He reaches up with one hand, swipes a few fallen strands of air behind her ear. "But?" he asks.

Her teeth find her lip, and she bites at it for a second before answering. "I don't put out on the first date, Castle."

Oh.

He leans forward, presses a kiss to her lips, hard and fast and she arches towards him, actions still betraying her words.

"Kate," he breathes, his forehead pressed against hers, "I'm pretty sure we've been on a date every day this week."

She pulls away from him, brows furrowed. "Huh?"

He chuckles, cradling her jaw in his hand, tracing her cheekbone with his thumb again. "Lunch and Remy's, Forbidden Planet at the Angelika, the run in Central park? And those are just the times we went out," he says. "I think they technically qualify as dates, we just didn't count them as such."

Her eyes widen, joy sparkling within the deep sea of lust that has been evident since they got here. "I think you're just trying to get into my pants, Castle," she teases.

He smiles. This is them. This is why he lo– likes her so much.

"Hey, you just admitted to wanting to get into mine, _Beckett,_ " he counters, the hand still on her hip drawing her forward, her hips grinding against his leg again, a moan tumbling from her lips.

She glances down between them, as does he, to find their bodies still pressed tightly against each other. There's no way she doesn't feel how much he wants her.

But when she looks back up, he can see how much she wants him.

"Sounds good to me," she whispers, using her grip on his shoulders to draw his lips back to hers.

His hands drop again, curling around her thighs as he lifts her off the ground so her legs wrap around his waist.

And he carries her to her bedroom.


	15. Chapter 15

_**oxymoron**_

* * *

 _oxymoron:_ (noun) a figure of speech in which apparently contradictory terms appear in conjunction

* * *

She wakes up warm, comfortable, his arms wrapped around her middle, his chest pressed against her back and it's _perfect._

It brings her back to the tent, to the morning she woke before him, her head on his chest. Reminds her of the way he held her, how comfortable it had been, how badly she wanted to stay, how her mind had screamed and her to run as fast as she could.

This time, though, she doesn't need to run, and the fear of this closeness, of this intimacy is a quiet hum in the back of her mind, too soft to make her do anything about it.

She's comfortable, here in his arms as the first rays of sunlight shine through the tiny gaps in her curtains. He makes this comfortable, with the way his arm supports her neck, the way he holds her tightly, keeps her in place, nestled against him, curled up against his body.

He dwarfs her. His broad chest pressed against her narrow back, his body wrapped around hers, his large hand splayed over her stomach, just below her breasts.

With anybody else, feeling so small, so vulnerable would probably scare her, have her crawling out of bed and using her need for coffee as an excuse for her absence. With him…she really doesn't want to move.

So she doesn't.

She readjusts her head over his arm, drapes her own arm over the one wrapped around her waist, her hand falling to rest over his, and soon enough she's drifting off, darkness fogging the edges of her vision.

The second time she wakes up, it's to soft, gentle kisses being pressed against her neck, to the slight scratch of his scruff over her shoulder.

The second time, it's a different kind of perfect.

Sleep still clouding her mind, she tilts her head back, allows him greater access to her neck. He presses a kiss to her pulse point, soft and sweet, and then another right below her ear before he lays back down, resting his head next to hers on the pillow they're sharing.

"Good morning," he whispers, words muffled against the crown of her head.

She smiles, squeezing his fingers with the hand still resting over his. "Morning," she mumbles back.

He tightens his arm around her, pulling her tighter against his chest. He dusks a kiss to the top of her head, traces the curtain of her ribcage with the pad of his thumb. It has her letting out a sigh, sinking deeper into his embrace.

"Sleep well?" he asks, voice still soft, as though to avoid breaking the early morning bliss.

She hums, nodding her head ever so slightly. "Better than I have in…a long time."

"I'm glad."

It falls silent again, as his thumb keeps drifting over her skin, his lips brushing across the back of her head, his arm still tight around her. She's still holding his hand when her eyes fall closed, when she feels the silence, the joy, the bliss beginning to pull her back under.

And then he presses another, harder kiss to her hair, tightens his grip on her just a bit, brings her back to him.

"I don't want to ruin this," he whispers. "But I have to ask you something."

Her heart skips a beat, anxiety flooding her stomach as she forces herself to nod against him.

She hears his sigh, feels it against her back as he pulls his arm from around her, rolls onto his back. His other arm is still caught beneath her head.

He doesn't say a word.

So she follows his movements, rolling onto her own back, and then onto her side, resting her head in his palm. She's looking down at him, watching him as he smiles up at her, reaches out to run his fingers through her messy hair, to swipe stray strands behind her ears.

"You're in this, right?" he asks.

She lets out a laugh, smothers the rest of it behind her palm until her breathing returns to normal. "You do remember that it was _me_ who asked _you_ out, right, Castle?"

"Of course I do," he answers. "I just…I don't know, I guess I want to make sure that now that we've done the date thing, and the…other things, this isn't over."

She opens her mouth to answer, the promise on the tip of her tongue, the jump so easy to take, but he moves, sits up and reaches down. He tilts her head upwards, runs his thumb along her cheek.

"I really like you, Kate, and I don't want this to be something we just…got out of our systems," he says, voice dripping with sincerity.

Her heart skips a beat, mind racing with something that sounds too much like _I'll never get you out of my system._ It's too emotional, sounds too much like _forever._

But she finds herself sitting up, pushing herself up onto her knees, his hand falling from her face. She smiles.

"I, uh, really like you, too, Castle," she says, and a smile tugs at his cheeks. "And I wouldn't have asked you out if I only wanted one night."

He reaches forward, his hand wrapping around her waist as he pulls her closer, and she settles onto his lap, thighs parted over his.

"No, I know," he says. "I just wanted to make sure we were on the same page."

She grins, leaning towards him, her hands coming up to frame his face. She tilts his chin upwards so his eyes meet hers, keeps their gazes locked as she leans down and brushes a chaste kiss to his lips.

"And what page is that?" she whispers.

He hums, tugging her closer until her stomach is pressed tight against his. "On the page where we're starting something new," he answers, and her heart flutters.

She leans even closer, close enough for the tip of her nose to brush against his. "Oh? And where does this something new start?"

He grins up at her, eyes shining. He knows what she wants. She knows he wants it, too, can feel the evidence of his desire pressing between her thighs.

He pulls her down gently, brushes a kiss to her lips. "I think this would be a pretty good place to–"

She's claimed his mouth with hers before he can even finish the sentence.

* * *

Getting to school at the same time as she does might not be _completely_ accidental.

But she climbs out of her car, her hair pulled back, twisted into bun, wearing a white button-down and a blazer and a pair of perfectly fitted slacks and he's reminded of exactly what drew him to her in the first place.

This is the first version of her he ever knew. Miss Beckett, with schooled features and square shoulders and a bag slung over her shoulder. Her head held high, chin tilted upwards in a silent demand for respect. Her heels high, her spine straight with confidence and authority.

He closes his car door, and she turns around, her eyes going wide when she spots him.

"What are you doing here so early?"

She stills, and he keeps walking towards her as her shoulders loosen, as her lips curl into that small smile he loves so much.

"I figured I'd come and get ready for the day." He shrugs. "Us showing up at the exact same time was simply a happy coincidence," he adds.

"Yeah, right," she mumbles, rolling her eyes. "I'm sure it has nothing to do with you knowing my schedule."

He gasps, his steps faltering as a he presses a hand to his chest. " _Beckett,_ I am wounded that you would accuse me of using my observations about you against you," he says, feigning hurt as she continues to walk, heading for the door.

She turns to him, smiling over her shoulder. "Who said this was using them _against_ me?" she says. "I don't remember saying I didn't want you here, just asking _why_ you're here, since you usually show up later."

And then she turns around again, her back straightening as she starts walking again, the sway of her hips completely purposeful and absolutely enticing.

It draws him forward, has his feet stepping before his brain can catch up. He speeds up, taking a few running steps until he finds himself at her side, until he can bump her shoulder with his.

"So, you don't mind me being here?"

She rolls her eyes, again. "If I didn't like having you around, Castle, we wouldn't have spent so much of the last week together and I definitely wouldn't have asked you out," she says. "Besides, I did want to talk to you about something, before the day starts."

"Oh?" he breathes.

She stops, turning on her heel to face him. One hand is still curled around the strap of her bag, fist resting on her shoulder. The other reaches out to rest on his chest as her eyes dart around as though to make sure they're alone.

He feels her relax, once she's satisfied that no one's watching. Her fingers pluck at the collar of his jacket, lips curling into a small, sweet smile.

"First, I want you to know that I am in no way ashamed of what we're doing," she says. "And that part of me really doesn't want to do this."

Reaching down, he rests his hand over hers. His lips curl into a smile, mirroring the one still shining in her eyes. "Not the most reassuring start, there, Kate," he says, tracing the ridge of her knuckles with the pad of his thumb.

She presses her hand more firmly against his chest. "It's not bad," she whispers. "At least, I don't think it is."

"Well, why don't you tell me, and then I can decide what I think?" he suggests.

Her smile widens and she hides it between them, her forehead pressing against his chest for a second before she looks back up, eyes still sparkling with joy, tainted with a flicker of worry. "I want us to keep this, _us,_ just between us for a little while," she says.

He reaches forward with the hand not on hers, his palm cradling her jaw, his thumb tracing the sharp line of her cheekbone.

The smiles and laughter he expected, and he'd certainly known the sex would be _fantastic._

But this, the intimacy, the slight way she tilts her head into his hand and smiles at his touch, has caught him off guard. And after only a day of it, a day they spent rolling around in her bed, learning every hill and valley of each other's bodies, how easily they've slipped into this renders him speechless.

Three years, he watched her. He silently admired the way she demanded authority, quietly wondered about the pain that lingered in her hazel eyes, and now…

"You okay?" she whispers.

He blinks, vision refocusing, the blurriness fading to the sharp lines of features, the tiny flecks in her eyes.

"Because I meant what I said yesterday," she continues. "I really like you, Castle, and I'm in this, but it's so new, and you have a family, a daughter that goes to this school and I just—"

He cuts her off with a kiss, the hard, fast press of his lips to hers that has his eyes slamming shut, opening again to the beautiful sight of her fluttering lashes.

"I'm in this, too, Kate," he promises. "And if you want to keep this between us, we'll keep it between us."

She smiles. "Are you sure?" she whispers.

He nods. "I'm sure," he says. "Whatever you want, you have it."

She nods, a slow, slight dip of her head as her fingers curl around the fabric of his jacket. His hand falls from her face to rest on her shoulder, to pull her closer.

"Well then, when we're at work, you're single and I'm single," she says, leaning closer. "But before we go inside, I just want one more kiss."

And she steals it from his lips before walking away, sentimental Kate gone, replaced by the always professional, always strong and confident _Beckett._

The switch echoes in every click of her heels as he follows her into the building.

* * *

The whole keeping it quiet thing doesn't seem to be going so well, a fact she realizes after all of ten minutes spent standing out in the hall.

He's leaning against the wall between her classroom and his, only the width of her door separating them, when the morning bell rings. Her eyes keep drifting to him, up his tailored slacks, to the blue shirt that brings her back to that park, where she had wrapped her arms around his neck, her body pressed against the length of his, her mind swirling, intoxicated by his kiss.

Then one of her students walks by, across the threshold between them, mumbling something about his girlfriend having been right, and she tears her gaze away.

So she spends the rest of the time between the first bell and the second staring at the row of lockers in front of her.

The whispers, however, are impossible to ignore. Years of practice have her picking up on quiet conversations, exchanges that end suspiciously, right as students get too close. Talks about flirting and hugs and that tent they shared in the woods, the stories already circling the halls.

Part of her expected it, and yet they still fill her stomach with butterflies, nerves settling at the base of her spine.

When the second bell rings, she heads into her classroom without sparing him a second glance.

And when first period ends, students flooding the halls, she stays at her desk, staring at the computer screen without focusing on anything, his frame lingering outside the door, just barely visible in her peripheral.

She looks up just in time to see him glancing through her door, a grin spread across his face, gaze tinted with worry. She smiles at him, mouths her reassurance, digging her fingernails into her palm to quell the desire to hold his hand.

Kate Beckett is _not_ sappy. She doesn't just hold somebody's hand. She doesn't depend on anyone else for comfort.

But when second period comes to an end, she practically jumps from her seat. Her hands curl around the edges of her blazer and pull it tight around her middle. The students don't take long to leave, finding their friends and fishing their phones from their pockets, buzzing with excitement at having a period free of classes.

She follows the last one into the hallway, her cup of noodles clutched in one hand as she finds a place at his side.

Her eyes fall to where his hand rests against his thigh, her own fingers itching to wrap around his. She resists.

There might be rumors circling the school, whispered stories she knows are true, but nobody knows for sure but them. She and Castle are the only ones who can confirm the stories, and she doesn't plan on doing it now.

"You ready for lunch?" he asks.

She nods, lips parting around her response when a hand wraps around her arm.

"I'm sorry, Castle, but I think Beckett and I need to talk."

She swallows back her sigh of disappointment as she turns around to find Lanie standing at her side, hair pulled back in a high ponytail, a smile wide across her face.

"We do?" she asks, as Lanie's hand falls from her arm.

Her friend nods. "We do," she says. "Which means you're coming with me. You can have lunch with Writer Boy tomorrow."

Fighting back another sigh, she turns back to Castle, forces a small smile to come across her face. "I guess I have to go," she says. "See you later?"

He nods, and Lanie's dragging her towards the stairwell before he can say a word.

She finds herself making her soup in the science lounge before following Lanie into her class, the large room half filled with tables and half taken up by a science lab. She drops into one of the seats, setting her cup down on the table in front of her, as her friend takes the seat to her left.

"So, why did you hijack me and ruin my lunch plans?"

Lanie grins. " _Plans_?" she asks. "You and Castle planned to have lunch together?"

Oh, _that's_ what this is about. Castle.

She really should have known.

"No," she answers. "But we've been eating lunch together, in the language lounge, for a couple weeks now and it's kind of an unspoken agreement." She shrugs. "We're friends, what's the big deal?"

"The big deal is that _you_ had sex."

She almost chokes on her bite of soup, broth sputtering from between her sips, a noodle caught in her throat. She slaps a hand over her mouth as she forces a breath through her nose, forces her suddenly racing heart to slow.

"What?" she manages, her voice weak, shaky. "I am _not_ –"

"You _so_ are, Beckett," says Lanie. "Come on, that reaction totally gave you away. Plus, you have the glow."

"The glow?" she asks. "What glow?"

Lanie laughs. "The glow people get when they're having sex," she says, like it's the most obvious thing in the word.

It is. But she can pretend it isn't.

"I don't…" Crap, maybe she can't pretend. "We're not…"

Yeah, she definitely can't pretend, not with Lanie staring at her like she already knows the truth and her heart racing in her chest and the image of him, naked in her bed, vivid in her mind.

"Is it Castle?" asks Lanie.

Her teeth catch her, lip, her eyes falling to the contents of her styrofoam cup. It's answer enough for Lanie, that much she knows, but she nods her head slowly, her pulse jumping in her throat.

"Oh my God," breathes Lanie, expected excitement lilting every word. "I mean, I heard the rumors, and the story about you guys sharing a tent out in the woods, and I suspected something would happen between you two when he volunteered you for the trip, but…you guys actually had sex?"

She looks back up, her lip still caught between her teeth, and nods once again.

Lanie grins. "Was it good?"

 _So good._

Her mouth curling into a grin, she nods again. Her grip on the styrofoam cup tightens, the image of him and her in her shower yesterday afternoon…

She _cannot_ be thinking of that.

"And you like him?" asks Lanie. "Really like him, I mean. Because I think he really likes you, Kate."

Of _course_ she likes him. She likes him too much, finds her mind running wild with forbidden images of the possibilities for their future, finds herself giddy with him, with the desire to touch him and hold him.

And the sex… _God…_ it's so overwhelmingly fantastic.

"Kate?"

She blinks, eyes refocusing.

Lanie's staring back at her, smiling wide, happy. She reaches over, settles a hand over her own, still wrapped around her cup.

"I'm happy for you," she says.

And she finds that she's pretty happy, too.

* * *

He sees her again after lunch, when she leans against the brick wall outside her classroom and smiles sweetly, letting him see that the tension in her shoulders has faded, that the fear in her eyes is gone.

He wants to reach over, wrap his arms around her, or wrap his fingers around hers and ask her how lunch went, what they talked about. Tease her about the way her cheeks turned pink and revel in the eye roll that reminds him of their first three years.

But he doesn't. He _can't._ So he just smiles back at her, lets her see how happy she makes him, until the bell rings and the kids return.

And then third period starts and she disappears into her classroom with a sway of her hips and a glance in his direction that has desire racing down his spine.

He spends third and fourth periods thinking about her, spends the ten minutes between them letting his gaze lock on her through the window in her door.

Fourth period ends along with the school day, the bell ringing through the halls, drowned out by excited conversation and the sounds of busy hallways. He leans over his desk, gathering the papers he needs to bring him, putting away the books some students left on their desks.

And then she shows up, her bag slung over her shoulder, the click of her heels alerting him to her presence. He turns around, finds her leaning against the doorframe. A smile plays at her, lips, her eyes sparkling the way he loves so much.

"Do you need to wait for Alexis?" she asks softly.

He shakes his head. "She's working on a school project with a friend," he answers. "Why?"

She shrugs, her easy smile morphing into a grin he recognizes. "No reason," she breathes. "I just thought maybe we could…"

"Could?" he asks. He sets the books down on the counter, stepping towards her.

She adjusts her bag, licks her lip and he _knows_ she's doing it on purpose, knows that she's trying to drive him crazy. He half expects the shrug she offers next, the way she fades back into casual smiles.

"You could walk me out," she says.

She's mocking him, teasing him. That much he knows, and yet the offer still makes him smile, nod.

It's only been a day. It makes perfect sense that it still amazes him that they do this, that the woman who, just a few weeks ago, claimed to hate him is now inviting him to spend time with her.

He grabs the papers he needs in one hand, reaches for hers with the other. His fingers wrap around hers, drawing her close as he smiles at her.

"I would love to," he says.

She rolls her eyes. "Figures."

He leads her down the empty hallways, past the door until they find themselves in the stairwell, on the landing between two flights.

That's when she squeezes his fingers, when she stops walking.

He turns to face her, finds her staring at him, serious as ever. Her eyes dart around the room, to the brick walls and the stairs they just came down, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards.

He opens his mouth to speak, to ask what's wrong, when her gaze zeros in on his lips, eyes flashing with a spark of–

 _Oh._ Right.

This is where they almost kissed the first time, with her body only inches from his, her breathing heavy, hot as it had washed across his face. His back had been pressed against the wall, and she had been so close. And her eyes had flicked downwards. She had wanted to kiss him, and then she ran away.

And this is where they agreed that this, _them,_ was an inevitability. Talking about the first almost kiss, his hand wrapped around her arm, holding her close as he almost kissed her for the second time. As he fell for the pink stain of her cheeks and realized with startling certainty that he would never stop wanting to see that side of her, open and free and sweet.

The north stairwell.

He releases her hand, lets the papers fall to the ground as he reaches up to cradle her jaw in his hands. He tilts her face upwards and slants his mouth over hers.

She reaches forward, her fingers curling around his lapels. Her body presses against his, her hips nudging his, her tongue sliding into his mouth as her nails scrape down his chest.

When he pulls away, sucking in a gasping breath, her chest is heaving as she pants. Her fingers are knotted in his hair, and his hands bracket her hips, holding in her against him.

She's pressed up against the wall, her bun messy, her blazer pushed back, shirt tugged from the waistband of her skirt.

He reaches up, brushes loose strands of hair from her face.

"I've wanted to do that for…weeks," he breathes.

She chuckles, and so does he, as she dips her head, presses her forehead against his shoulder.

His fingers trail down her spine. "That sounded way more anti-climactic out loud than it did in my head," he laughs.

She shrugs, looks back up at him, her lips skimming his neck, pressing hard against her pulse for just a second. "It felt pretty climactic," she says,

His brows fly towards his hairline and her cheeks turn bright red.

"I meant…important. Climactic as in important, a culmination of events," she says. " _Not_ that kind of… _climax._ "

He smiles, leaning down to brush his lips across the shell of her ear, to catch the skin between his teeth. "I could make it that kind of climax, too, if you want."

Her eyes are wide and her hips nudge against his when she tugs on his hair, drawing his gaze back to hers.

"My place?"

His grin widens even more. "Meet you there."

* * *

 **A _huge_ thank you goes to Lindsey (ipreferwestside) for beta reading this chapter for me.**


	16. Chapter 16

_**oxymoron**_

* * *

 _oxymoron:_ (noun) a figure of speech in which apparently contradictory terms appear in conjunction

* * *

She stares at herself in the mirror, at the smear of eyeliner across her eyelid, at the brush of mascara on her lashes, at her wide eyes. Even she can see the fear in them, the anxiety that started last night and has only grown since.

The _All That I Am_ project is due today, which means she has to present today and…she _really_ doesn't want to.

With a sigh, she lets her eyes fall closed, opens them again to find the same image staring back at her. Her hair is pulled up in a high ponytail, her makeup done, her neck framed by the collar of her button-down.

She traces the lines of her neck until they fade into her sternum, her clavicles.

Her teeth find her lip, digging into it, and her gaze drops to her mouth. She forces her mouth open, draws her gaze back up to land on her face again and she sees the tears beginning to rim her eyes.

 _It was my mother. We were supposed to go to dinner together—my mom, my dad and I. And she was going to meet us at the restaurant, but she never showed._

She sucks in a stuttering breath, lets her eyes fall closed again. Her hand drops from her neck to her side, fingers curling around the small of her waist.

 _Two hours later, we went home, and there was a detective waiting for us, Detective Raglan. They found her body. She had been stabbed._

Her hand shifts, and instead she presses her nails against the fabric of her shirt, scoring lines into it that mirror her mother's wounds. Her eyes fall closed, the images so familiar and dark behind them.

The alley, dirty, empty. The blood, violent red. The body…her mom's body.

 _She still had her money. And it wasn't a sexual assault, either. They attributed it to gang violence, a random, wayward event. And the killer was never caught._

She tears her eyes open, reaching back up to wipe the tears from them, just barely smearing her waterproof mascara. Her eyes still gleam, the bright bathroom light reflected in lingering tears and she tries to blink it away, without success.

 _It was my mother._ Her gaze flickers down, to the chain sitting on her bathroom counter, the ring hooked around it. Her thumb drifts over the gemstone, hooks through the circle of white gold.

She lifts it off the counter, the chain wrapping around her thumb and fingers, the ring falling to rest in the cradle of her palm, cold against her—

Her gaze flicks upwards, to catch sight of her face in the mirror, to find him standing right behind her, fumbling with the top button of his shirt.

His eyes meet hers in the mirror, and she sees his hands drop from his collar, his eyes going wide with pity before her own gaze shifts back down.

" _Kate._ "

It's a breath, so soft it's barely audible, even in the otherwise silent apartment. He reaches out, and she feels his hand wrap around her waist, his arm draping across her stomach and pulling her against him. Her back presses against his chest, and his chin lands on her shoulder.

"Nervous?" he asks.

He already knows the answer. He spent last night trailing his fingertips up and down her spine, whispering words of comfort into her hair until she fell asleep. And yet she leans back against him, her cheek against his temple.

"A little," she answers.

He doesn't need to know about the images racing through her mind, memories of the bloody alley, of the somber funeral, of the day she found her dad drunk for the first time.

He doesn't need to know, because some days, she wishes she could forget.

And he doesn't ask. Instead, he peers over her shoulder, to the hand still hovering in the air, the chain dangling from her fingers. She used to wear the necklace every day, until one of her students asked about it and sent her to the verge of tears.

"What's this?" he whispers. The arm not wrapped around her reaches up, and his fingers circle her wrist gently, his hand cradling hers.

She can practically see the curiosity in his eyes, even though hers are locked firmly on her hand.

"It's nothing," she mumbles. "Just…a necklace that I was going to wear today."

He pulls back slightly, his cheek pressing against hers, his hand gripping at her waist. "A necklace?" he breathes. "But you never wear…" He reaches up, the hand under hers traveling, shifting until his fingers are poking at the portion of the chain pooled in her palm, at the ring, until he finds the gem. "It's a ring?"

She blinks, nodding her head slowly. "It was…hers."

"Oh."

He falls silent, his hand returning to rest under hers, his thumb tracing her own. His arm stays wrapped around her, tight as always, comforting and warm.

"Do you, uh…want to talk about it?" he whispers eventually, the words washing warm across her skin.

She shrugs. "There's not much to say," she whispers. "It was her wedding ring. My dad gave it to me, said she always wanted me to have it, after she…died."

"Oh," he breathes again.

He doesn't ask anything else, doesn't say another word. His one hand steadies her wrist, the other coming up to gently lift the chain from her palm.

She watches, fighting to urge to grasp at it, pluck it from his hand and hide it. Hide the story behind it and the way it makes her heart ache with longing for her mother every time she feels the cold metal against her chest.

He's careful, slow, deliberate, pausing at every step to give her the chance to object. She doesn't. She can't, the words she would speak trapped by the lump in her throat.

He swipes her hair over her shoulder, his fingers brushing the back of her neck. He pauses, meets her gaze in the mirror, and she nods her head, the movement so slight it's barely visible in her reflection.

Her eyes slide closed when she feels him loop the chain around her neck, as he fastens the clasp, as he releases the necklace and lets it fall against her nape, the ring settling against her sternum.

His hands skim from her next to her shoulders, curling around them so his fingertips trace her collarbones.

"You'll do great," he says, the words a whisper she needed to hear.

And then he leaves her alone, like he knows she needs that, too.

* * *

He's hovering, and he more than knows it.

He watches as her fingers skim the pages of her novel, the one they're reading in the next unit of class, once this project is complete. She seems to be tracing the lines of text with her finger, one by one as she reads.

And his eyes are locked on her. Even though he's sitting at one of the students' desks, his knees wedged underneath it, the same book spread out between his palms.

He's not reading the book, doesn't care about it nearly as much as he cares about her.

Her finger curls around one of the page, flipping it quickly, and her eyes take the free second to dart up, to catch him staring. His own gaze darts back down, his cheeks burning as he tries to scan the top line of letters, right under the oversized number one.

She sighs audibly, though, making his gaze flick back up to her.

He watches as she closes the book, saving her page with a bookmark and setting it aside. She swivels in her seat, crossing her arms over her desk.

"You're hovering," she says.

"I know." He does.

Her head dips, eyes falling closed and she pushes herself onto her feet, steps closer to him. She drops into the chair next to his, reaching over, her fingers curling around his thigh.

"I'm a big girl," she tells him. "I can do this."

His hand falls from the surface of the desk, the book tumbling closed as he rests his palm over hers. Her eyes meet his, wide, a halo of amber with a rim of green and he smiles.

"I know you are," he says. "I know you can handle this. You have…for years, probably."

His heart breaks when her eyes flicker, a split second of darkness and pain sparking in them before disappearing. Confirming his words, leaving him wishing that all of this, _them,_ had happened sooner.

That he could have been here for her sooner.

He sucks in a breath, squeezes her hand gently. "I just want you to know that you don't have to do it alone, and that if you need anything or anyone…I'm here."

She blinks, takes a deep breath but doesn't speak and he mentally slaps himself.

It was too much. Too big of a promise for…four days into this relationship, only a few weeks into their friendship and he _really_ needs to learn to watch what he says to her.

Because then she's slipping her hand out from under his, and standing up, leaving him sitting at the desk. The heels of her shoes click as she steps away from him and back towards her desk.

He's still watching her when she sits back down, can't help but notice the way her fingers drift across the row of ceramic elephants sitting on the corner of her desk before letting her hand fall to the cover of her book.

"I'm fine," she whispers. "I've dealt with this…with the memories before, without you, without _anyone_."

His heart aches for her.

He pushes himself up from his seat and follows her movements until he's leaning against the edge of her desk, his palms pressed against the wooden surface of it.

She looks up at him, her eyes still wide. "You can stop hovering, Castle," she whispers. "I can handle this on my own."

He reaches for her, catches her hand in his and squeezes her fingers gently. His thumb traces the line of her knuckles, the ridges on the back of her hand.

"I know," he says. "I know you can handle it, Kate. I'm not saying you can't do it." He smiles, just the slightest quirk of his lips that he hopes is reassuring. "I'm saying you don't _have_ to do it alone."

She offers him a smile, slight and shaky and most definitely forced. Her grip on his hand tightens, the slightest of squeeze as her eyes shine with appreciation.

"Thank you," she breathes. "Really, Castle, I appreciate it. And if I need anything…I'll come to you."

"Even if it's just a hug?"

That makes her smile, her head dipping to hide her laugh before her eyes meet his again. "Yeah, Castle, even if it's just a hug."

He smiles back at her, squeezing her hand one last time before letting her fingers slip from his grasp. "That's all I ask," he says. And then he walks away, hand already reaching for the doorknob. He pushes it open, but turns back to face her before he leaves. "I'll see you later?" he asks.

She smiles, the only answer she offers being a slow nod.

He closes the door behind him and gets all of two steps away before looking back again to see her through the window.

Her nose is buried in her book, the covers spread between her palms. Her finger is once again tracing the line of text on the page, brows furrowed in concentration.

And then there's a scoff that has him dragging his gaze from Beckett to turn towards the source of the sound.

It's a student, one of the boys he taught last year. A jock type, shoving his gym bag into his locker.

"You worried about your girlfriend, Mr. Castle?" he asks, voice teasing, no doubt alluding to the rumors he knows are circling the school.

He should deny it, for her sake, for the sake of their secret.

But he can't find the words to do so, not when it's the truth.

* * *

She has to do this four times today, but when the students from her first period class flood the room, she doubts she'll be able to manage so much as the first.

Her heart is pounding in her chest, the patter almost painful against her ribs, against her sternum. She's hyper-aware of the ring resting against her skin, cold between her breasts, the chain pressing lightly against her nape, pulled down by the weight of her makeshift pendant.

Her hands curl around the fabric of her blazer, tugging it tighter around her stomach, a movement she disguises by undoing the button and then popping it back into place. She tugs her shirt down, adjusts the waistband of her trousers, wiggles her toes in the confines of her shoes.

Suddenly, her muscles feel tight. Her shoulders tense, her abs clenching without reason and that hug Castle offered seems so very appealing.

If she didn't have a class right now, if he didn't have one either, she would probably let him wrap his arms around her, give in for a moment of comfort and warmth like nobody's offered her in years.

Then again, if she didn't have a class, she would be nauseous with anxiety, on the verge of tears with memories.

A bloody alley, gruesome stab wounds. It's not even the story she's telling her students. She wouldn't dare share it with them, doesn't want to pitying looks or, worse, the teasing that could come.

Her mind just doesn't seem to understand that, to grasp the fact that the story she _should be_ telling them is supposed to be a happy one filled with childhood innocence and family love.

She reaches up, her fingertips curling around the chain around her neck, tracing the rise and fall of the metal hoops. Her fingers drift across the sharp line of her collarbone to rub at the tight muscle of her shoulder before curling around her nape.

The second bell rings, announcing the start of class, and her heart sinks.

It's too late to back out. She promised them this. She dealt with a breakdown for this, wrote down the story of the night that haunted her for years and still sneaks into her dreams.

She became friends with Castle because of this.

She can do this.

Sucking in a breath, she stands, takes her place at the front of the room and waits for morning announcements to be complete. Her back is pressed against the tray beneath the chalkboard she never uses, her hands curled around the metal.

"Good morning, class," she greets. "Today you will all be presenting one of the portions of your _All That I Am_ project. Is everybody ready?"

As expected, the response she gets is less than enthusiastic, and something about it has a weight lifting from her shoulders, her spine straightening at the relief.

No enthusiasm means no expectations, and no expectations means she can't disappoint.

And yet her stomach is still churning, her mind still swirling with memories and images, unwelcome as ever. Blood, so much blood. And pain and grief, the tear stains that had been on her cheeks for weeks after they got the news. Black, their entire family dressed in black, gathered to remember a great woman, taken too soon.

She swallows back a lump in her throat, either a cough or a sob. She doesn't care to find out which.

"In order to get through as many presentations today as possible, we're going to be starting immediately," she says, fighting the quiver in her voice.

She sucks in a breath as she walks back over to her desk and reaches into her bag. She had planned to do this without the page, had memorized the anecdote by reading it every morning for the entirety of spring break.

But now her hands are shaking, and she needs something to hold onto, something to make it stop.

She pinches the edges of the page too tightly as she returns to her spot at the front of the class, and presses the piece of paper against her stomach, her palms flattening over her sides. She sucks in a deep breath, lets it out slowly, ignoring the furrowing of her student's brows, the eyes following her every move.

It's just a story, just a tale of a young girl and her mother.

That's it.

She forces a smile, her fingers clenching tighter around the edges of her page.

And her mother's face pops into her head. Not lifeless and pale in the alley, but bright with joy, a smile tugging at her cheeks and crinkling the corners of her eyes.

It's the smile little Katie Beckett used to love. The smile she still loves.

She takes another deep breath, her own smile finally reaching her eyes, and opens her mouth to speak.

"When I was a little girl, my family owned a cabin in the woods upstate, and to me, that was the most magical place."

The words come easily, the memories vivid, just like they were out in the woods.

The trees had looked so tall when she was a little girl, impossibly high. And it always amazed her how the water was colder at night than it was in the day. And the creaks of the old wooden cabin had kept her up some nights, had lulled her to sleep on others.

Her grip on the paper loosens, and she continues the story of how she learned to swim in the lake behind the house.

Her mother's smile is still vivid in her mind.

* * *

She doesn't come to him at lunch. He waits in the lounge for a while, expecting her to show up, and then goes over to her classroom, lingering outside the door.

He finds her sitting at her desk, head resting between her palms. The chain, he notices, is pulled out of her shirt, stretched between her neck and her hand, the ring probably pressed between her fingers and her forehead.

His hand drifts across the doorknob, but he never twists it, never pushes the door open.

She knows he's here for her. She knows she can come to him.

He knows she's not used to having a shoulder to lean on, and she promised she'd come to him if she needed anything.

So he leaves, letting his hand slip slowly from the doorknob as he heads to his own classroom. He drops into his desk chair, his head hitting the cushion behind him, arms landing on the armrests. He sucks in a breath, fighting the worry that churns in his stomach, the need to offer her comfort when she might not want it.

He spends the rest of lunch distracting himself with what turns out to be a _really_ boring book.

Then he finds himself teaching his third period class, lingering in front of the class and rambling about what makes up a good character, the types of conflict and the novel they're going to be reading. The fourth class goes the exact same way, except slower, because he finds himself constantly glancing at the clock, needing the day to be done.

Needing to see her.

But when the bell rings, he lingers in his classroom. He tries to give her the time to come to him, even if just to reassure him that she's okay.

He lasts all of five minutes before he leaves, pushing himself into her classroom.

She's sitting at her desk again, this time leaned back, her eyes closed. And she's crying, just soft sniffles and silent tears rolling down her cheeks, but he finds himself walking around her desk, bending down to take her hand in his.

"Kate," he whispers, and her eyes snap open wide, panicked for a split second before she realizes it's him. He runs his thumb over the back of her hand. "You okay?"

She nods, slow and hesitant. "Yeah," she breathes eventually. "I'm…fine."

He almost accepts it, almost lets it go, lets her keep up with the facade, but her cheeks are tear stained and her eyes are still glassy and he cares about her too much to let her be in pain alone.

So he squeezes her hand gently, keeps his eyes locked on hers. "No," he says. "You're not."

She shakes her head. "Castle, please. I can…I'm _fine._ "

He sighs, stands up, her hand still locked in his. "I told you, Kate, you don't have to do this alone," he says softly. "I'm here for you. Even if it's just for a hug."

Her head dips down, and then her gaze lifts, meeting his. Her eyes are watering again, unshed tears gleaming in the bright classroom light and his heart break for her.

She doesn't ask for it, but he tugs on her arm, draws her to her feet and into his embrace. His arms wrap around her shoulders, meeting between her shoulderblades as her arms wrap around his waist. Her head presses against his chest, and his chin drops to rest on her head.

She's silent, just letting him hold her, and he doesn't dare say a word as he skims his fingertips up and down her spine.

"I thought I would be fine," she whispers eventually. "The first time I did it, I was fine."

He nods, slow and slight, just enough to tell her to continue.

"But I…I couldn't stop thinking about her, about everything and my mind would wander," she breathes. Her voice cracks, and he realizes she's crying again, wiping her tears against his shirt. "They were all happy memories, Castle, but I just…"

She trails off, but her grip on him tightens, her head pressing harder against his chest. His fingers continue their dance up and down her back, from the collar of her blazer to the curve of her lower spine and back up again until she sighs against him.

"I just miss her so much."

His heart breaking for her, he tilts his head, dusts a kiss to her hair. His arms tighten around her, hands pausing their journey to press gently against the spot just below her ribcage.

"I know," he breathes. "And it's okay to miss her, Kate."

She nods against him, like a silent _I know._

And then she's slipping out of his arms, pulling away, but catching his hand with hers, squeezing it gently. Her eyes are swollen and bloodshot, her cheeks sticky with drying tears. She wipes are her face with her free hand, but all that does is smear the glassy tears that had been lingering in her eyes.

"Thank you," she whispers. "For…everything."

He steps closer to her, squeezes her hand this time. "I told you, Kate. I'm here for you. As a friend, if that's what you need. As more, if that's what you want," he promises.

She smiles, the upturn of her lips weak, but present. "What about as both?" she says, her voice so soft, so shy he almost misses it.

But he smiles back at her, let's his pain for her be evident in his eyes. "I can be both," he agrees. "Whatever you need."

Her mouth opens, just a bit, and then closes again and she swallows, like she's trying to get rid of words on the tip of her tongue and he can't help but wonder what they are. What she's trying not to say.

If maybe she's feeling the same thing he is.

And then she speaks, but he doubts it's the words she almost spoke, the ones she held back.

"That goes both ways, you know," she says. "If you ever need anything…I'm here."

It comes out as a whisper, and though her cheeks were already pink, he can see the blush creep down her next and up to the tips of her ears.

And he's not allowed to think it. He's not supposed to be thinking it, when all this is so new, when they've only really been friends for a few weeks, when they've been dating for less than a week.

So he doesn't think it. And he doesn't say it.

He smiles at her, draws her a little closer. "Today," he says, "all I need is to know that you're okay."

She nods. "Then, as long as you don't have plans, come home with me? We can stop at the comfort food truck on the way."

He doesn't answer with words, but simply presses a kiss to her cheek and squeezes her hand.

Because he's not supposed to think it. And he definitely can't say it. But he's pretty sure those three words might come out if he opens his mouth, and it's too soon. It'll scare her, and the last thing he wants is to push her away.

So he keeps his mouth shut and follows her out the door.

* * *

 **A huge thank you goes to Lindsey for beta reading this chapter for me.**


	17. Chapter 17

_**oxymoron**_

* * *

 _oxymoron_ : (noun) a figure of speech in which apparently contradictory terms appear in conjunction

* * *

She doesn't get to see him, outside of work, on Thursday or Friday or over the weekend and she hates how it drives her crazy, how the memories of his hands and lips on her body keep her up at night.

It has her rolling over in bed and sliding her thumb across her phone screen, letting her fingertip hover over the button to call him. And every time, she denies herself, sets her phone back down and rolls onto her other side, telling herself that it's absolutely stupid for her to want him so badly that she's willing to call him in the middle of the night and invite him over.

What's even more stupid, so stupid she tries to pretend it isn't actually happening, is that she misses _him._ Not just his hands, not just his lips, but _him,_ his presence and their conversations and leaning against his shoulder while they watch a movie and stumbling backwards to her bedroom, giggling when he runs them into a wall.

She misses him like some kind of girl in lo–

With a crush. Or, maybe a _little_ more than a crush. Like a girl, giddy about her new…boyfriend and that's it. Nothing more.

She just…misses him.

So when he finds her in her classroom on Monday morning, rearranging the books of short stories in one of the cupboards, and wraps his arms around her, she's powerless to push him away.

"Good morning," he breathes.

She shoves another book into the cupboard, ignoring the loud thud that echoes through the room when it hits the wall.

Then she's sinking back onto her heels, her head lolling against his shoulder, her arms settling over his. "Good morning," she echoes, the words hushed as he presses his lips against hers.

And it's _stupid_ and maybe a little crazy how quickly she reacts to him, how she lets her lips part under his and her hand reach up to frame his jaw.

They're at _work,_ but she can't turn him down.

She can't deny herself.

So she turns in his arms, reaching up to snake her arms around his neck and kiss him harder, more furiously. She nips at his lower lip, and barely manages to swallow back a groan when he does the same to her, his hands slipping under the fabric of her blouse.

And they really shouldn't.

Except her fingers are knotting in the hair at his nape and pulling him impossibly closer and he's backing her against the counter. His hands curl tight around her hips, drawing her flush against him, pressing her lower body to his and she can't swallow back her moan, lets it leak into his mouth as he squeezes her ass.

And then she's sitting on the counter, and he's standing between her legs, his lips tearing from hers to pepper kisses to her neck. He sucks at her pulse, at the paper thin skin over her collarbone and her eyes crack open to land on…the open door.

Nobody's there. But they could be, and the realization has her shoving him away and jumping off the countertop before she has time to recover. Her knees wobble beneath her weight and her hands are shaking when she reaches for him and flattens her palms against his chest.

"We can't," she says, the words coming out breathless and quiet. "We're…at work."

She feels his shoulders sag, feels him release a breath, his chest sinking beneath her hand. "Yeah, you're right," he breathes.

Swallowing back her own sigh, she steps closer to him, her hand trailing upwards to curl around his nape. "I want to, you know," she admits. "I…missed you."

He looks up, his eyes wide when they meet hers, his lips curling upwards into a grin. "Which part of me?"

 _All of you._

But she doesn't say that, the words caught on the tip of her tongue, tight in her chest. It's too soon for that, for…words that insinuate more than a stupid crush, than a budding relationship.

It's only been a few weeks. She can't need him that much already _._

So she hides the truth, the depth of her thoughts behind a smirk, and the purposeful trail of her eyes down the the length of his body, lingering on his crotch to make her point.

He groans. "You can't do _that_ and then tell me I can't have you, Kate," he says. "I have a class to teach in less than half an hour."

That has her chuckling, smothering it behind her palm as he glares.

"I guess that's one advantage of being a woman," she says. "I can hide how much I want you."

He groans again, but this time he reaches for her, his hands curling around her arms as his lips press against hers, his tongue finding hers when her lips part on a gasp.

She pulls away a few second later, her hands once again resting on his chest. He steps back before she can push him away, his eyes dark, hooded, his smile almost sheepish.

"Sorry," he breathes. "I just…"

"I know," she breathes.

Because he can't possibly be oblivious to how much she wants him. He has to know. It's written across her face, in the burn she can feel on her cheeks, in the way her lips part around quiet breaths.

It's a feeble attempt to calm herself down.

He sighs, drawing her gaze up to his to catch him taking another step back, bumping into one of the desks behind him. "I should go," he says. "Being here, right now, this is not helping. I'm going to…remove myself from temptation."

She chuckles, but doesn't hold him back.

If they weren't in her classroom, she would probably be doing the same thing.

But when he reaches the door, her insides are still burning, the need for him still coursing freely through her veins, making her hands shake, her head spin.

"Castle," she calls out, just as his hand curls around the doorframe.

He turns to look at her, eyes locking on hers in silent question.

She grins. "Meet me in the supply closet by the lounge for lunch."

* * *

She bans the storage closet after that first time, telling him, with no uncertain terms that _there is no way we're having sex at work again, Castle._

Because apparently, as much as she _obviously_ enjoyed it, Kate Beckett isn't fond of being caught stumbling out of a room with one co-worker, to find another co-worker standing in the hall, staring at them.

Well, now Ms. Shipman, one of the junior English teachers, definitely knows they're…together.

And getting it on at work.

And Kate slapped him on the chest after they got caught, accusing _him_ of getting them into this mess when _she_ was the one who suggested the supply closet in the first place.

It doesn't bother him that much, though, because as much as Beckett likes to pretend she can resist him, he knows she really can't.

After all, she's the one who tends to stick her tongue down his throat when he least expects it. Like when he caught her making photocopies, and his hand drifted across her back and then he was pressed against the shelves of paper, her fingers curled into fists at his lapels. And then there was yesterday, when he jokingly tried on Mr. Markaway's new glasses and she excused them, dragged him all the way downstairs, to the staff bathroom in the art department, shoved him against the door and stuck her hand down his pants.

It's been a week and a half, and her no sex at the workplace rule really, _definitely_ isn't being followed.

Like right now. He can't tell him she's trying to hold him close or push him away, but every time he tries to step away, she pulls him back into the cradle of her hips with her legs locked around his hips.

So he really can't be blamed for this, as much as she likes to pretend she's not just as desperate as he is, if not more.

 _She's_ the one who dragged him into the lounge from his classroom. _She's_ the one who made it obvious that her lunch plans had nothing to do with actual food. _She's_ the one nipping at his neck and tugging his shirt out of the hem of his pants.

She's also the one who shoves him away like her burned her when a wolf whistle fills the room, coming from the doorway.

He hurriedly tucks his shirt back into place and combs his fingers through his messy hair as she jumps off the table, adjusting her blazer as though what they were doing isn't completely obvious.

Based on the grin on Esposito's face, and the bright pink staining Ryan's cheeks…yeah, it's definitely obvious.

"Yo, we eat on that table," says Espo, making Ryan wince, as though he never thought of _that_ detail.

Kate's cheeks turn even redder. He has a feeling she didn't think of that, either.

"We weren't…" she trails. "It's not–"

"Don't worry, Beckett," says Ryan, and though his face is still beet red, he's smiling now, too. "We already knew."

"You _what_?"

Ryan shrugs. "We knew," he repeats.

" _How?_ "

"Oh, come on," says Espo. "You might not be all that close with your students, Beckett, but you have got to know that they're talking about you two. You guys are the talk of the school."

He feels his own cheeks warm, glances at her to find her blush reaching the tips of her ears.

"What…are they saying?" she asks softly, her voice shaking.

Ryan shrugs. "A lot about you guys sharing a tent on your camping trip," he says. "I didn't actually believe that one until one of the really quiet kids in my class told me."

"Yup," confirms Esposito. "And a few people talking about how you would would stay up late by the fire and whisper to each other during activities."

She nods slowly, as though taking it in. Or remembering those days, those conversations.

He can't help but flash back to the way the flames reflected in her eyes, to how she felt in his arms, how she opened up to him, brought them a step closer to here.

"Yo," says Espo, making him blink and he sees Kate shake her head as though to snap out of her own head.

She was definitely remembering it, too.

"No need to get all dreamy on us," he continues, and then he nudges Ryan's shoulder with his. "And here I didn't believe the kids at first."

"You didn't?" asks Kate.

Ryan shrugs. "Not really," he says. "I definitely didn't think you two were, uh, doing it until Hayley walked into our classroom and was all like 'You two do know your friends are fucking, right?'"

That has Kate glaring at him, crossing her arms over her chest. "I told you she was going to tell somebody," she says.

He crosses his arms over his chest, grins. "Need I remind you, again, that the supply closet was _your_ idea?" he teases.

It makes her turn beet red and she huffs as she looks away. His gaze follows hers back to where the boys are standing, still lingering in the doorway, looking as disgusted as they did when they first walked in.

"Dude, you guys did it in the supply closet?" asks Espo.

That makes Kate laugh and she smothers it behind her palm, hiding the adorable tint of pink in her cheeks.

Espo makes another sound of disgust, waving his hand in the air. "Whatever guys. I don't want to hear about where you guys get it on," he says. "Just try not to do it where we _eat,_ okay?"

Ryan nods his agreement. "Or where we get our teaching supplies," he adds, before following Esposito out of the classroom.

Left in the lounge, he chances a glance at Kate before turning back towards the door. "I would steer clear of the copy room, then, if I were you," he shouts out.

The sound Espo makes is audible even from here, but he shouts back anyway. "We were happy for you two, you know," he says. "Now you ruined it."

It has her laughing again, cute little giggles that have her freezing, her eyes going wide like the sound caught even her off guard.

"So, uh, the boys know," she says, her eyes falling to the floor.

"Yeah," he breathes. "I guess we have to tell Alexis next."

She turns to him, eyes going wide again, this time in panic.

He shrugs one shoulder. "I promised her she would be the first, and now she's like the…fourth."

"More than that," she says, wincing at her own words. "Lanie knows, too. And my dad…he asked me how the date went at lunch and I couldn't lie to him."

He reaches for her, his hand wrapping around hers. "It's okay, Kate," he breathes. "But, we do have to tell her."

She nods. "I know."

His hand still around hers, he draws her closer, reaches out to curl his fingers around her waist. "Kate?" he breathes. "Would you like to come to dinner at my place tonight?"

She smiles, sweet and shy, her head dipping to press lightly against his chest.

Her answer is barely audible, and exactly what he expected, but for some reason, it makes his heart float.

"Yeah."

* * *

They definitely didn't mean for Alexis to find out before they got to tell her, or at least until the teenager figured it out for herself. They didn't mean for it to happen _at all._

But it does happen.

And it's completely her fault.

How is it that she managed to get them walked in on _twice_ in one day?

She really doesn't know, and doesn't care to figure it out because her mind is blank, spare for the confusion that blurs the edge of every thought, has her mouth gaping open but no words coming out.

Castle's arms are wrapped around her waist, his palms splayed across her lower back, holding her against him even though he really shouldn't be. Her own arms are up around his neck, fingers knotted in his hair where her grip has tightened thanks to the butterflies in her stomach, the nerves tightening every muscle of her body.

And Alexis is standing in the doorway, eyes wide, mouth hanging open, cheeks bright pink.

And, well, standing here in his arms, she realizes that being walked in on by the boys really wasn't that awkward. Being caught making out with your boyfriend by said boyfriend's daughter, yeah… _that's_ awkward.

"So, I guess the rumors are true _now_ ," says Alexis.

That's when Castle seems to regain his ability to think, even as her own is still missing. He pushes her away gently, releasing her waist to have her hand in his instead.

Innocent, but still together. Yeah, that's good.

"Hey, pumpkin," he greets his daughter. "I…uh, Kate and I were just…" he trails off.

She opens her mouth, ready to finish the sentence for him, but there's nothing to say.

Only Alexis seems to find a word. "Making out?"

And maybe it's not how Kate would have put it, but it's the truth and it makes her wince, makes her cheeks burn, the tips of her ears burning as the blush reaches them, too.

"Yeah," says Castle. "That."

"So, you two are dating now?" asks Alexis.

As if the answer isn't already overwhelmingly obvious.

"Yeah," says Castle, once again. "Yeah, we, uh, we are."

Alexis' gaze darts between the two of them at that, blue eyes unreadable as her hand clenches around the strap of her backpack.

It's weird, watching Castle's daughter try to make a judgement about them. About this situation. Something about it reminds her of…well, of her own father, and her teenage years, and the way her dad would judge every single guy she brought home.

Except this, for some reason, has her more nervous than _that_ ever did.

"I knew it was going to happen," says Alexis, finally breaking the silence. "I mean, he gushes about you _all the time,_ and you guys told me it would happen, but it's so…odd."

"Odd how?" asks Castle.

The question has Kate swallowing thickly, nausea churning in her stomach. She's not sure she wants to know the answer.

"Odd in a lot of ways," answers Alexis. "She was my teacher just last year, and you guys work together, and up until a few weeks ago you guys were barely even speaking to each other and now you two are together and it seems pretty serious and it just seems…sudden."

Her heart sinks, air catching painfully in chest as her teeth worry at her lower lip.

It is sudden. It's so very sudden.

"But are you okay with it, pumpkin?" asks Castle.

She looks up again, to find his daughter staring back at her, the tiniest of smiles playing at Alexis' lips.

"She obviously makes you happy," says the young girl. "And I think you make her happy, too. And it would be really mean of me to stand in the way of that."

Breath still caught in her throat, she squeezes Castle's hand. In hope or in dread, she isn't really sure.

"Of course I'm okay with it, Dad," says Alexis. "I just wish I had found out differently."

That has him laughing, and his hand slips from within her grasp as he reaches for his daughter, wraps her in his arms, pressing his nose against her bright orange hair.

"Of course," he promises. "Yes, of course. We'll be more careful, I promise."

Alexis chuckles as they part, and both Castles turn back to face her, matching pairs of blue eyes locking on hers.

And she's frozen, still unable to breathe until he speaks.

"You still up for dinner, now that we have my daughter's blessing?"

She blinks, swallows around nothing that feels like everything, and forces her answer to come out steady.

"Sure."

* * *

He freezes the moment he hears the it, his hand tightening around the doorframe as Alexis dips beneath his arm, Kate staying stuck behind it.

The click of heels, the turning of pages, and his daughter's excited _hi_ and Kate goes still behind him.

He turns to face her, finds her staring back at him, eyes wide and if he wasn't sure that their presence was already obvious, he would try and usher Kate out of here, try and save her the trouble, or at least make sure that she's okay with it.

Except their presence is obvious. And he doesn't have time to step deeper into his apartment before the door is flinging open, at the mercy of the woman on the other side.

"Mother."

"Richard," she greets, leaning over to press a kiss to his cheek before she turns to Kate. "And you must be Katherine."

 _Shit._

Kate's eyes go wide, her lips parting around an answer that doesn't come, and instead she nods, slow as she reaches for him, clutches at the fabric of his jacket.

"Mother," he repeats. "Can you at least let my company walk in before you pounce on her?"

That makes her roll her eyes, and he watches as she reaches for Kate, drawing her into the apartment and bumping the door closed with her hip.

"You don't mind, do you, darling?" she asks Kate.

He watches Kate, trying to figure out what she's thinking when she doesn't actually voice an answer, but lets his mother lead her deeper into the apartment.

"What's she doing here?" he hisses at Alexis, once his mother has disappeared into the kitchen.

His daughter just shrugs, and follows her grandmother and Kate. He watches as she drops her bag by the counter and slips onto one of the stools by the island.

His girlfriend. With his daughter. And his mother.

And as much as he wants to apologize for the onslaught of redheads today, as much as he wants to whisk Kate away and kiss her until she forgets all about his crazy family, he also wants to watch this. Witness this.

He takes a step forward, finds his way into the kitchen and settles on the barstool next to Kate. His hand settles on her knee, and though his mother is talking to her, she turns to face him. Her eyes are still wide, still filled with surprise at the turn their evening took, but her lips are curled into the slightest of smiles.

"You okay?" he asks.

She nods, slow and almost unsure, but nods all the same, before turning back to his mother.

His mother asks a lot of questions, simple ones, like she's trying to get to know Kate, who answers each and every one. She even tells a bare-bones version of the story of why she became a teacher, omitting the part about her mother being murdered. Her fingers stay locked tightly around his as his mother nods along and Alexis' mouth falls open at the story behind the woman who once taught her.

It's only when his mother asks about Kate's family that he sees her stiffen, her eyes clouding over for a minute, losing focus just like they would back on the camping trip.

He doesn't hesitate, doesn't care that his family is watching. He leans over and presses a kiss to her cheek, a second one to her temple. Her grip on his hand tightens as she blinks, looks back up at his mother, who is now staring at them both, worry creasing her brow.

"My mother passed away years ago," answers Kate. "And my father…he's still alive. He's a lawyer." She pauses, her mouth clamping shut as her eyes slide to him, wide hazel orbs locking on his as her teeth catch her lip for half a second.

There's more. Something she isn't saying. Something she wants to say, but isn't. For his benefit, for his mother's, for Alexis' or for her own, he really isn't sure.

But it has him squeezing her hand, and leaning over to press a kiss to her head, sealing the promise that everything is okay and the pride that swells within his chest against her skin.

It's his mother that breaks the silence that falls over them.

"Are you staying for dinner, Katherine?"

Kate's cheeks turn pink, and she turns back to face his mother, her gaze darting towards Alexis for half a second. "That was the plan, but if you guys want a family dinner, I can go," she offers.

"Nonsense," says his mother, waving a hand in front of her. "I just wanted to make sure. Dinner is already in the oven, and I'm sure there will be enough for the four of us."

She pauses, and Kate nods, her lips parting around a response that gets cut short.

"Besides, any woman who makes my son so happy can already be considered family."

He freezes, his eyes darting to Kate, who does the same. Her cheeks go bright pink, her mouth falling open.

She looks shocked. Dumbfounded.

And so is he, but for some reason, he can't form the words to tell his mother that they've only been together for a few weeks, that it's definitely not _that_ serious yet.

That family is a big word, and Kate might not be comfortable with it.

Because he realizes, staring at her, past her to see Alexis smothering a grin behind her palm, his mother grinning in his peripheral…that he loves this.

That family might be a big word. And it might be too soon. But already, he can see it, so vivid in his mind.

This. Them. His daughter. His mother. _Kate._

His family.

But it's forbidden, and he can't say that, wouldn't be able to formulate the words, even if he tried.

So he pushes himself up from his seat, forcing a laugh as he fishes his phone out of his pocket and holds it up dramatically.

"You did the cooking, Mother?"

She rolls her eyes, already knowing what to expect. "Yes, Richard."

He turns to Kate and Alexis. "So, what do you guys like on your pizza?"

His daughter laughs, and his mother joins in, and soon enough, he hears Kate chuckling with them, her eyes alight with joy, bright when they lock on his, whispering a silent _thank you._

* * *

 **A huge thank you goes to Lindsey for beta'ing this chapter on short notice. She's a beta rock star.**


	18. Chapter 18

**_oxymoron_**

* * *

 _oxymoron_ : (noun) a figure of speech in which apparently contradictory terms appear in conjunction

* * *

Making photocopies should _not_ be this _hot._

Well, a lot of things he does should not be as hot as she finds them to be. Like when he makes her coffee, and she stands back watching his every movement, and lets her fingers brush against his when he hands her the mug, and pounces on him to press a desperate kiss to his lips. And when he doesn't leave before the bell rings and her students show up before he can escape, and he takes her hand in his like they're closing a business transaction, but lets his thumb caress her knuckles and leaves her fighting the shiver that wells at the base of her spine.

But _still._

Making photocopies should _not_ be this _hot._

Damn him and his _hands._

"See something you like?"

She blinks, her spine snapping straight as her arms cross over more tightly over her chest. Her nails dig into the fabric of her blazer as she shakes her head indignantly.

It's feeble. But she can try.

" _No,_ " she says. She leans back against the shelves of paper, crosses one ankle over the other. "I'm just…waiting for you to finish so I can make some copies of my own."

"Oh? And waiting also entails staring at my ass?"

She blushes, turning to look at the cubby of neon pink pages next to her in a pointless attempt to hide it. " _Yes_ ," she hisses. "It is a vital part of the waiting…process."

He hums, and the machine in front of him whirs to life once again, spitting out copies of his next class' assignment. And then he turns around, his hands pressing against the top of the machine.

"I'm glad Esposito doesn't feel the same way," he says, a chuckle punctuating the sentence, making her cheeks burn and her stomach twist with undeniable arousal.

How he manages to turn her into a puddle of need so easily is beyond her.

Although Lanie insists it has something to do with the fact that she denied the attraction between herself and Castle for three long years before letting him so much as be her friend. And she can't think of a better reason, so…

"Come here," he beckons suddenly, holding his arms out to her.

"I said no more sex at work," she fights. "Our co-workers have walked in on us. Hell, your _daughter_ walked in on us. We need to learn to be more careful."

"Says the woman blatantly ogling me in public," he teases. He leans forward, just enough to be able to curl his hand around her hip and tug her closer to him, before leaning back again, her body just barely pressed against his.

"The door is closed, there's no windows and we're alone," she breathes, reaching up to curl her fingers around his lapels. "Nobody is here to see me…staring."

"Which means nobody is here to see me kiss you."

And he does, his lips slanting over hers before she can come up with a response. She melts against him, her arms winding around his neck.

It takes her a second, until her lungs burn as she's forced to pull away, to remember that they absolutely should not be doing this.

"We can't," she says, the words a barely audible breath that must wash across his face because his eyes flutter closed and she smiles. "Somebody could…walk in."

He leans down, undeterred, and presses a kiss to her neck. And another a little lower, nipping at her skin this time, until he finds her collarbone.

She absolutely does _not_ moan.

Except she does. And it has him smiling against her skin, kissing her neck one more time before he comes back up and presses his lips hard against hers.

She doesn't fight him this time. She doesn't even try to resist. His breath is warm against her face, and then his tongue slides into her mouth and she's sinking against the shelves, clutching at his shoulders.

It's amazing, really, how quickly he can get her to give in. How easily he has her melting against him, fighting to get closer to him, forgetting that they're in the copy room at work with only a few minutes before the bell rings.

But his hands are sliding down her back, over the curve of her waist to her hips and lower to curl around her ass. He draws her against him, and her leg comes up to wrap around his thigh, the heel of her shoes catching his calf.

He swallows her moan.

And then the door opens with a quiet creek.

It has her jumping away from him, even though she's already pressed against the wall. Her head hits the shelf with a thud as her palms press harder against his chest, shoving him away. He must hit the copying machine, because there's another thud, and the quiet clatter of metal.

She dreads it, her heart is pounding in her chest, when she turns towards the door.

 _Fuck._

"Jordan?"

The young woman is staring at her, her usually pale cheeks beet red, her dark eyes wide, her mouth gaping open.

"I– I, uh, I'm s– sorry," she stammers. "I d– didn't m– m– mean to inter– rupt."

Well, she didn't plan on them getting interrupted, either, but it's too late for that.

So she smoothes down her pencil skirt, and her blazer, and reaches up to comb her fingers through her hair.

"No. No," she says softly, her voice quivering around the single syllables. Her hands are shaking now, and she curls them around the edges of her blazer to steady them. "What do you need, Jordan?"

The young girl stares down at her feet and shrugs. "I– It's just that the…bell already rang…a– and, well, I guess you d– didn't hear it, b– but some of the guys are threatening to, uh, leave. I just thought you m– might, uh, want to know," she says. Still stuttering. Still nervous.

But she stopped listening a while ago.

"The bell already rang?"

Jordan nods, slow and shy.

"Shit," she swears, making her student look back up at her. "Sorry. Tell them I'll be there in a minute."

Jordan nods and turns to walk away, her steps as quick as possible.

It leaves the two of them standing alone, in this room, where they absolutely cannot make out ever, _ever_ again.

"It's nothing to worry about," says Castle.

She turns to him, eyes going wide. "What do you mean?" she asks, too loud, too worried. "My _student_ just walked in on us making out like horny teenagers, Castle."

"And?" he counters. "She's a quiet kid. She won't go around telling everyone what she saw. It's nothing to worry about, Kate, and we just…won't let it happen again, okay?"

She heaves a sigh of relief, her shoulders sagging. "You're right," she breathes.

But he isn't. Because her _student_ just walked in on them making out. And that's not _okay._

"We have to get to our classes, though, so I'll see you later?"

He nods, smiling sweetly and reaching out to squeeze her hand before stepping out and heading to his classroom. She walks by his open door a few seconds later to hear him tell his students he was helping her figure out an error with the copying machine.

* * *

"You don't mind the rumors, do you?"

If she wasn't draped across him with her fingertips trailing up and down his chest, he would have jumped at the sudden words.

But she is draped across him, her head resting on his shoulder, her smile pressed against his skin. So he turns his head and presses a kiss to the top of her head instead, his arm tightening around her waist.

"Should I be worried that you're thinking about our students after we did… _that_?" he says, pinching her side gently.

She squirms, a soft chuckle escaping her as she reaches down to bat his hand away. Her head lands on his shoulder again, and she presses a gentle kiss to his chest before relaxing back into his embrace.

" _No_ ," she answers. "We finished _that_ a while ago and my thoughts…drifted."

"To our students?"

Her hand stills on her chest, and though he can't see her, he can picture the roll of her eyes, the way she fights the smile threatening to spread across her face.

It's adorable.

"To the rumors about us," she answers. "And the way you reacted when Jordan walked in on us earlier."

He grins. "You mean when I made you so needy you practically jumped me in the elevator as soon as we got here?" he teases, pinching her side once again.

She pulls away, glaring at him as she reaches down to catch his hand in hers, flatten it against her side, again. Without saying a word, she leans back down, and her cheek is warm against his cooling skin when it touches his chest.

" _Yes_ ," she hisses. "Then."

"Okay. Just making sure," he says, picturing her eye roll once again. "So, what about my reaction when Jordan walked in on us?"

She sighs, and her hand trails down his chest once more, lands on his stomach. "You were so… _unphased_. Like it didn't even matter that she caught us. And I know she's a quiet kid, and I know she won't tell, but what if it was someone else? What if it was one of the gossip girls, or the jock guys who would definitely make fun of us? Would it have been different?"

He shrugs. "Probably not," he answers.

"Why?"

Oh.

Well, this isn't a conversation they should have naked, horizontal, and pressed together. So he pushes himself upwards, his free hand pressing hard against the mattress as he shifts into a sitting position, drawing her with him. She pulls away slowly, reaching for the sheet twisted and tangled at the food of the bed to draw it to her chest so it covers the both of them.

"Kate?"

She nods, her eyes widening ever so slightly, and clutches the sheet tighter to her chest.

"It's nothing bad. I promise," he continues quietly.

"I know," she defends. "I wasn't worried."

"You looked worried."

She reaches forward to shove his shoulder, a frown creasing her brow, but her eyes sparkling with something he loves. Something so very beautiful.

"Just tell me, Castle," she says.

"Okay," he whispers. "I guess I don't mind because I know it will happen anyway."

Her frown deepens with confusion, and she fidgets with the edge of the sheet. "What will happen anyway?" she asks.

"People will find out anyway, Kate," he tells her. "At least, in my mind the two of us, we'll be together so long people will have to find out eventually. Our families, our friends, our co-workers and even our students."

"Oh."

Yeah, oh.

He reaches forward to curl his hand around her elbow and draw her closer, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. She leans in towards him, her weight falling against his chest as his arm bounds around her waist.

"How would they find out?" she asks quietly, the words warm against the side of his neck.

"That depends," he answers. "Do you want the version where we last, or where we don't?"

She goes tense at that, her arm coming up to drape across his stomach. Her hand curls around his side, right below his rib cage, and her lips press against the muscle of his shoulder.

"Neither," she breathes. "I get the picture."

She must.

And she has to know that he pictures the version where they last. Where everyone who didn't already get the memo finds out about them when she shows up at work with a diamond ring on her finger. With the promise of their forever obvious for the world to see.

She has to.

And she hasn't jumped out of bed or sent him home yet, so that's good.

"You know," she breathes eventually, drawing away from him just enough to look him in the eyes. Hers are shining bright, sparkling with mischief as her teeth catch her lip to tamper her grin. "We're not at work right now."

"Oh," he says, "we aren't?"

She giggles, leaning forward to peck his lips. "No, we aren't," she confirms. "Which means there's no chance of anyone walking in on us. Which means we get to make out like horny teenagers all we want."

"Can we do more than make out?"

She feings thoughtfulness for a moment before leans in and pressing another kiss to his lips, lingering this time, just long enough for him to trace the seam of her lips with his tongue.

And then she's pulling away, just barely, their breaths mixing in the inch of space between them.

"More," she breathes. "Definitely more."

So he reaches forward and grabs her hips, drawing her into his lap as she wraps her arms around his neck. Her lips press against his once more, and she sinks into his lap.

And images of diamond rings are forgotten.

* * *

She likes this too much. Way too much.

But there's something so fun about movie night with his family. Hearing Martha's play by play of the movie, criticism for the actors, comments on plot lines. Alexis and Castle discuss things like an odd debate of fact against fiction that ends with them flicking popcorn at each other.

And she's happy to join in the fun, keeping to herself but enjoying it all the same. Watching a family like she hasn't seen in ages, since her mother passed away. Fighting the well of sadness in her chest to let herself feel the warmth of love that surrounds her, that radiates off all of them.

His arm is wrapped around her, and her side is pressed against his, her head resting on his shoulders. And she's _comfortable._

In a family. With her boyfriend.

A little while ago, this was the last place she expected to be.

And now she can't imagine being anywhere else. Which is scary, and yet there's no urge to run, no desire to leave the warmth of his embrace.

It's weird. It's not her. Well, it's never been her, until now. Until him.

The sounds of the movie fade to be replaced by the music that plays while the credits run. Martha pushes herself up from her seat, a smile on her face.

"Well, that was fun, kiddos," she says. "But I must be off to bed. I need my beauty sleep, you know."

Castle smiles, and she turns her head on his shoulder to face the older woman. "Of course, Martha," she breathes.

Alexis excuses herself next, saying something about how she has homework to do this weekend that she should be getting a head start on. Her footsteps are loud on the stairs before the sound of her bedroom door closing echos through the apartment.

And then they're alone. And she loves this too.

His arm tightens around her waist, drawing her even closer to him, as his lips dusk across her crown. Her arm , wrapped around his middle, falls so her hand is resting on his thigh and she pushes herself away from him ever so slightly.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I know this wasn't the evening you expected."

She smiles, patting his thigh gently. "It's okay. I had fun," she says. "The movie was good."

His own smile stretches across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes, before he leans down to kiss her. Her fingers curl around his thigh at the press of his lips against hers, and he crushes her against him.

She lingers for a moment before pushing him away slowly, ignoring his groan of disappointment.

"Castle?" she breathes.

"Yes?"

"I was thinking–"

That makes him look up at her, his eyes wide, worried and her heart drops for a moment. She squeezes his thigh, hoping it's comforting, and forces a smile.

"Good thinking?" he asks quietly.

She nods. "I think so." She pats his thigh one more time, and leans forward to press a quick kiss to his shoulder. "I was thinking about what you said the other day, about how people will find out eventually, and you're right. And then today, with your family, I just…there's something I want to ask you, and you can feel free to say no."

He nods. "Okay," he whispers. "Ask."

She nods, too, slowly as she sucks in a breath. "I know it's soon," she begins, "and I know this might be kind of a big deal to you, so like I said, feel free to say no."

He chuckles, squeezing her waist gently. "Kate, you're rambling," he says. "Go ahead, just…ask."

She nods, once again, her head bobbing up and down quickly as butterflies flood her stomach, as nerves make her fingers shake. "I want you to meet my dad," she says, the words too quick, almost incomprehensible, even to her own ears.

But it makes his eyes go wide and his mouth fall open. In surprise. In…awe?

"I just…the people at work are already finding out, not just our friends, but our students, too, and I've met your family," she explains, even though, based on the way he's looking at her, she doesn't have to.

He looks like he already wants to say _yes._

But she's not good at this.

"And he's my family, Castle," she whispers. "And he's going to like you. Trust me, he's already talking about grandkids and it's been, _God,_ it's only been a few weeks, but he's…he'll love you. He's the one that–"

"Kate?"

The rest of her words stay caught in her throat when her gaze meets his, her eyes going wide. He squeezes her again, drawing her a little closer to him. He leans forward, and presses a soft, loving kiss to her forehead. The hand not on her waist comes up so he can comb his fingers through her hair.

"I want to meet your dad," he breathes. "I am honored that you want me to meet your dad."

She smiles, tilting her head slightly so she can press her lips against his. "Yeah?" She breathes the words into his mouth before leaning forward to kiss him again.

Because as nervous as she was, she knows he's being honest. She knows he's telling the truth. And her heart lifts with it, floods with that _thing_ she's not willing to accept yet.

"Yeah," he breathes back.

She pulls away, smiles, and leans back in, lets him sweep her off her feet with the swipe of his tongue against hers and the glide of his hands down her back. He draws her into his lap, and stands before she can get comfortable, forcing her to wrap her legs around his hips.

And then he carries her to the bedroom, his lips still pressed against hers, and she's melting into him once again.

* * *

She's beautiful. Perfect.

He leans back against the pillows and watches as she steps out of the bathroom. She's wearing his shirt, the dark cotton hanging off her shoulders, Darth Vader's face printed across her chest. Her long legs are bare, and her makeup is gone, and her hair is swept off her shoulders and into a messy bun that sits atop her head.

"You're staring," she whispers.

He blinks, a smile curling at the corner of his mouth as he watches her pull the sheet back and slide into the space next to him. She rolls onto her side, drawing the blankets back over her body. It dwarfs her, the puffy duvet and the pillow beneath her head, when she looks up at him and smiles.

"You know, this staring thing of yours is creepy," she adds. "Everything okay?"

He nods. "Everything's okay," he answers.

"Then why are you staring?"

He shrugs. "You're beautiful," he says. "And therefore I like looking at you."

"Oh?" she breathes, the softest tinge of pink finding her cheeks at the compliment. Her smile is small, slight, as she buries her face in the pillow for a second, and then turns back to him. "The staring's still creepy."

He chuckles. "Well then, come here," he says. He reaches for the nightstand and flicks the lamp off before sinking down into bed, lying flat on his back, the covers drawn up to his waist. His arm reaches out for her, and with a smile he can barely see, she crawls into his arms, her head landing on his chest.

Silently, he presses a gentle kiss to the top of her head, his arm banding around her waist.

"You're still staring," she mumbles. Sleepy now, like the energy that has followed her around all day has finally faded and left her warm and clingy and adorable.

And beautiful, as always.

"You're still beautiful," he responds.

She chuckles, and he feels the puff of laughter against his chest more than he hears it. "It's almost pitch black in here, and your view is of the top of my head," she whispers. "The top of my head cannot be that _beautiful._ "

"You know how much I like your hair," he counters.

She laughs again, burying her face in his chest this time. Her hand slides across his stomach and curls around his side and she squeezes him gently. Her lips press gently against his pec before she relaxes again, sinking into his embrace.

"Whatever," she breathes. "Just go to sleep."

"Can I stare at you until I do?" he counters, squeezing her hip gently as he leans down to kiss the top of her head once more. "Because you _are_ beautiful."

And he knows that if her eyes weren't closed, if she wasn't on the verge of falling asleep, she would be rolling her eyes right now.

"Go to sleep, Castle," she mumbles, the words slurred, drawing a smile to his face.

It only takes a few minutes for her breathing to even out, her arm going limp around his middle. She's asleep, relaxed, her hair tickling the side of his neck and beneath his chin.

And he keeps staring. His eyes adjust to the lack of light, and she comes into focus again. The tangle of hair atop of her head. The perfect slope of her nose. The flutter of her eyelashes as she sleeps.

She's _so_ beautiful. And she's his. And she wants him to meet her dad. And she fits into his family so effortlessly.

It's amazing, really, where they are, how quickly they got here. To this odd stage where keeping their hands off each other is impossible, and yet everything also has an air of domesticity and an undertone of seriousness.

Like she knows, just as well as he does, that this isn't just a passing thing. That this is something they both want to last.

That this is something he already can't imagine his life without.

Her. _Kate._ The woman he lo–

He goes tense at the thought.

That word is unwelcome, forbidden so soon. It's been less than a month. Just a few weeks of intimacy, of her as his co-worker, friend, and girlfriend, and it's been wonderful. Extraordinary, even.

But it's too soon for that word.

Isn't it?

His eyes, which he hadn't realized had fallen shut, slide open again, and land on her face. The corner of her mouth is quirked upwards into a small smile.

Beautiful. Always so very beautiful.

 _Kate._

He leans down and presses a gentle kiss to her head, his arms tightening around her, his smile stretching across his face. His head sinks back into his pillow, and he holds her tightly to him.

 _I love you._

* * *

 **I am _so_ sorry for the delay in updating this story. I'm working really hard to try and meet my ficathon goal, so this kinda fell to second priority. I promise I'm not giving up on it. **

**And a _huge_ thank you goes to Lindsey for always being there to help, even with long (ish) chapters on short notice.**


	19. Chapter 19

_**Oxymoron**_

* * *

 _oxymoron_ : (noun) a figure of speech in which apparently contradictory terms appear in conjunction

* * *

"Are you sure you want to do this?" she asks quietly, catching his arm just before he can reach the door to Remy's. "Because you don't have to."

He pauses, an easy smile on his face. "Didn't you already tell your dad I'd be here today?" he asks quietly, and she feels his hand curl around her hip, squeeze gently. "It's okay, Kate. I'm excited to meet him."

"You look nervous," she counters. "You don't have to be, Castle."

His smile falters, his gaze flashing with nerves. He squeezes her hip again, drawing her a little closer to him. And she feels the smile of satisfaction that curls at the corners of her lips.

Of course she was right.

"He's going to like you, Rick," she promises, her grip on his arm tightening.

But Castle shrugs, his gaze falling from her face to land on the ground. "Dads don't like their daughters' boyfriends," he says, the words quiet, almost shy. "Trust me. I would want to kill anyone who went near Alexis."

"Yeah, well, Alexis is _sixteen_ ," she reminds him. "When I was her age, my dad wanted to kill my boyfriends, too, but I'm not sixteen anymore, and he's mellowed."

"He has?" he asks. "Because I think he's staring at us." And with a jerk of his head, he motions over her shoulder, squeezing her hip once more.

She turns around, not even bothering to hide it, to glance through the huge windows that make up the store front. Sure enough, her father is sitting near the front of the building, not at their usual table, but at one to accommodate all three of them. There's a cup of coffee in his hand, and he takes a sip of it as though trying to hide his smile, even though the corners of his eyes are crinkled.

"He is," she confirms, smiling back at her father before turning back to Castle. "But he doesn't seem to have his kill face on, so I don't think it's any indication of his murderous tendencies."

He sighs. "Of course he's smiling. He doesn't want _you_ to know that he wants to kill me," he says.

"Really? He never tried to hide it before," she counters, letting a chuckle bubble up from her chest in an attempt to see Castle smile, too. "In fact, he's threatened to kill guys right in front of me, so I think the smile might be genuine."

His gaze darts from hers, over her shoulder again, and then back to her, his blue iris' shining with suspicion. "Are you sure?"

She smiles, and pushes herself onto her toes to press a quick kiss to his lips. "Castle, we are in public, and I just kissed you, and I'm smiling. If anything, my dad knows you make me happy. Which means, if anything, he won't hate you. He won't try to kill you. He might threaten you with an 'if you hurt my daughter' thing, but babe, you need to remember that this is the man who pushed me to ask you out that day. He's on board with this. And why are you smiling like that?"

"You just called me babe," he answers.

Her brows furrow. "No I didn't."

His smile widens, and he squeezes her hip again. "You did," he counters. "You said, and I quote, 'as an 'if you hurt my daughter' thing, babe.'"

"I–"

 _He might threaten you as an 'if you hurt my daughter' thing, babe._

She feels her cheeks burn as her lips part around a response that doesn't come, an excuse she doesn't have. Because she hasn't called anyone _babe_ since she was a teenager.

Except him.

This shouldn't be acceptable, but he's still smiling at her, wide and happy, and something about it has her stomach clenching in a way that isn't totally unpleasant.

Especially when he draws her even closer and he leans down to press a kiss to her mouth. It's hard and fast, and has her toes curling in her shoes and her grip on his arm tightening until he pulls away and she sucks in a steadying breath.

"You ready?" he asks.

And— _oh—_ now he's rendered her a puddle of mush, has heat pooling low in her stomach and he expects her to go inside and talk to her father.

But he's ready now, so she nods. "I'm ready."

Her hand snakes down his arm, and she tangles her fingers with his before he turns around and pushes the door open, leading her into the familiar restaurant. She finds her spot at his side just as they get to her father's table, and a smile spreads wide across her face.

"Good morning, Dad," she says, and then she motions to Castle with her free hand. "I'd like you to meet Castle, uh, _Rick,_ my boyfriend."

Her father stands, holding his hand out and offering Castle a friendly smile. "It's nice to meet you, Rick," he says. "Or do you prefer your surname? My daughter usually refers to you as Castle."

"Rick is fine, Mr. Beckett," says Castle. "The last name thing is a habit we've picked up on from work. That's all."

"Well then, Rick, you can call me Jim, if you're comfortable with that," says her father. "Now, shall we order?" he continues, motioning towards the table.

Her father slides back into his seat, and she slides into the window seat on the opposite side of the table. Castle takes the chair next to hers, still not releasing her hand.

He orders a coffee, and she gets her usual strawberry milkshake, watching as amusement flashes across his face. Her father keeps smiling at them both, his eyes alight with something she hasn't seen in awhile, with something she never thought her boyfriend, of all people, would bring back.

But he has. And it's wonderful.

Because her dad and Castle get along great, to the point where it doesn't bother her that she can't get a word in edgewise. They talk about fishing and the Hamptons, and her father thankfully refrains from telling Castle _everything_ about how her mother loved his books. Castle asks about the law firm and her dad asks about Castle's writing and she's shocked to find out he has something in the works, but he won't say what it is.

And she spends most of her meal blushing, picking fries off his plate or staring into the creamy pink of her milkshake, swirling her straw in the thick drink.

Her father likes Castle, that much is more than obvious. Even Castle seems to stop worrying just a few minutes into lunch, and releases her hand by the time their food comes.

But now the food is done, and so is the meal, and her father is telling them that he really should be going. He stands from his chair, just as the waitress comes over to get their dishes. To her left, Castle stands, too, and his hands land on her hips as he leads her out of her side of the table.

Like they've been doing this forever, so comfortable and so in sync.

It should scare her, right?

Why doesn't it scare her?

She pushes that thought back, blinking to refocus and find her father standing in front of her, his arms open. She steps into his embrace, her arms wrapping around his shoulders.

His nose presses against the side of her head when he turns to whisper in her ear. "He's a keeper, Katie."

She smiles, chuckling softly, but doesn't get the chance to respond before her father's pulling away and turning to Castle. They shake hands happily, agreeing that they should meet again some time, before Castle turns to her, and reaches down to take her hand.

"Do we have any plans for the rest of the day?" he asks softly.

She shakes her head slowly, her teeth finding her lip.

"Well then, how about we take a walk, see where we end up?"

She nods. "Okay." And then she turns back to her dad. "Do you have any plans for today?"

"Oh, I'm just going to stop by the firm, get some work done," he says. "You guys have fun. I'll see you next week, Katie."

She smiles. "Next week."

And then her dad leaves, and she and Castle follow, slipping onto the busy sidewalk amidst the crowd, falling into step, following the familiar rhythm.

Her hand is still locked in his. And she should be scared, but she loves it.

* * *

They end up in a park, like one of those sappy couples that everyone rolls their eyes at. Because her head lands on his shoulder, and her fingers are wrapped around his.

It's odd. He used to laugh at _that_ couple. And now he and Kate _are_ that couple but he wouldn't change it for the world. Because she's sweet and happy and it still catches him off guard, how different this version of her is, how free she is compared to the teacher he shared a wall with for three years before mustering the courage to try and be her friend.

But if this is where they've ended up, those three years were _so_ worth it.

She draws her head off his shoulder, squeezing his hand gently. "What are you thinking?"

He hums, a smile curling at the corners of his lips. "Nothing, really," he breathes. "Just that I'm…happy. And I think lunch went well?"

It comes out as a question, and she nods her head in response.

"It did," she confirms. "You guys got along really well. If I'm not careful, I might be out a lunch date every Saturday."

He laughs. "Serves you right," he says. "You and my mother are already conspiring against me, never mind my daughter."

She smiles. "Yeah."

And then she turns back towards the path, her smile still wide as they keep walking. He forces himself to look away, to stare at the path in front of them, at the grass and the tree, the flowers that are probably weeds poking out from the green.

It's just like their first date. The end of it. When things weren't so awkward, when he kissed her for the very first time, when he realized that there was never any going back after they took that step.

She looks as beautiful today as she did then.

Except for now she's thinking, staring off into space, her hand still tight around his. He recognizes the way she moves, that her steps aren't deliberate but automatic, that her eyes flicker with thought, and her mouth is twisted into a slight frown, her lip caught between her teeth.

Just like it is when she's correcting papers, and he feels privileged enough to watch.

"What are you thinking?" he echoes.

She blinks, and turns to him, her eyes wide. "Nothing," she says, the word soft, quick, breathy. A lie. "Just…about lunch with my dad, still."

Also a lie.

He squeezes her hand, halting their steps. Her brows furrow, and she steps towards him, follows him while he draws her off the path and towards one of the trees that dots the edge of it.

"I never knew him. My dad, I mean."

Her lips part, amazement sparking in her eyes as she steps even closer. "I didn't ask," she breathes.

He smiles back at her. "You were not asking very loudly."

She nods, her head bobbing up and down as her hand slips from his, and she shifts so she's standing right in front of him. He leans back against the tree trunk, his gaze locking on hers.

"So," she says, "you never knew him?"

He shakes his head. "Never saw so much as a picture," he answers. "Mother says that she met him one night, was completely infatuated and, well, one thing led to another. He was gone when she woke up in the morning."

"That must have been…horrible," she says.

He nods. "She doesn't talk about it much," he tells her. "I don't know if it's because he hurt her, though, by leaving without saying goodbye, or if it's because she thinks it will upset me. Or a mixture of both."

She nods this time, as though taking everything in, and steps closer, reaching out to splay her hand across his shoulder, to pluck at the collar of his shirt.

"Did you ever think of looking for him?" she asks, the words so soft, so shy, that he barely hears them.

He shrugs. "Not really. I mean, when I was little, of course I wondered why everyone else had a dad and I didn't, but I never wanted to actively go looking for him," he tells, the honesty of the words weighing heavy in his chest and he reaches for her, a hand curling around her waist. "As I grew up, Mother would dive into all her relationships head first, and there were quite a few men coming in and out of our house, like pseudo-fathers. It never lasted, though."

"Wow," she breathes. "I can't even…imagine."

"Yeah, you can," he answers. "You…with your mom…"

"That's different," she interrupts, pain flashing in her eyes. "Yeah, she's…gone and I miss her, but I still knew her. I can honor her and remember her and _love_ her. You have…nothing but the knowledge that there's some guy, somewhere, that gave you half his DNA."

Oh.

He never really thought of it that way. Never really looked at it as all that much of an empty space in his life.

"Don't you…want to know?" she asks.

He shrugs. "If I was to find out, I wouldn't be upset. But I like my life the way it is," he tells her. "I have Mother and Alexis and…you."

Her cheeks turn pink, her head dipping towards his chest as she nods.

"And I think that, even without having my father, my mother raised me well and taught me to be strong and perseverant and…some other things that might be more questionable," he says. "I think I turned out okay."

Her gaze flicks back to his, a smile flirting with the corners of her lips, and he expects some kind of teasing remark. A half-hearted compliment laced with a joke or a shrug of mocking indifference. Or, at most, a quiet agreement that he did, in fact, turn out okay despite the struggles of his childhood.

But that's not what he gets at all.

Instead, she eyes him up and down before crushing herself against him, pressing her chest against his as her arms come up to wrap her arms around his neck, her head falling so her nose is pressed against the crook of his neck.

It's so unexpected he goes tense for a moment, before letting his arms fold around her, hold her as tightly as she's holding him. He buries his face in her hair, lets his hands slip beneath the fabric of her shirt, as she sways in his arms, her lips pressed against his neck.

She doesn't say a word. She doesn't have to.

She thinks he turned out pretty good, too.

And he can't help the smile that spreads across his face when he presses his lips against the crown of her head, rubbing a gentle circle against the base of her spine until she draws back, the sweetest of smile spread across her face.

"Thank you," she breathes. "For telling me."

He nods, and leans down to press a quick kiss to her lips. "Thank you for listening," he whispers.

And it's true. Everything he told her is true.

Because after so many years, if he had the choice between knowing his father and living the life he has now, he would choose this life, he would choose her, every single time.

* * *

Sleep usually comes easy on nights like this.

Nights that she spends eating dinner with his family, smiling and laughing, enjoying the stories Martha has to tell and offering Alexis advice about what has yet to come. Nights that continue when she does the dishes by his side, fighting back giggles while he pinches her sides before wrapping his arms around her and suggesting they watch a movie.

Nights that end with her falling apart beneath him, biting her lip to keep from screaming his name, before finding herself wrapped in his arms, warm in his embrace.

Tonight was one of those nights. One of the best nights. But now she can't sleep.

Swallowing back a sigh, her hand snakes down to his, and she curls her fingers around his. Slowly, carefully so not to wake him, she draws his hand from her stomach, lifting his arm just enough to be able to roll out of his embrace, to shift to the empty portion of the bed next to him.

He stirs but doesn't wake, letting out a soft hum and drawing his arms closer to his chest.

A small smile spreads across her face at the sight, and she fights the urge to reach over and run her fingers through his hair as she pushes herself onto her knees and crawls off the bed. Her feet hit the floor with a soft thud and she forces herself to stand, ignoring the cold of the wooden floors against the soles of her feet.

She grabs his shirt, slips it onto her arms. It's too big, too long, but she does up the buttons anyway before padding through the office, to the kitchen.

It's the middle of the night and the loft is dark. There's no sound from upstairs. Martha's out. She left shortly after dinner, excusing herself politely before escaping for drinks with friends. And it's well passed Alexis' self-imposed bedtime. And Castle is sound asleep in bed, his arms empty, draped across the space she just vacated.

Everyone is asleep, but she tries to stay as quiet as possible when she reaches the kitchen.

She stands on her toes to grab a mug from one of the cupboard, and makes herself a coffee as quickly and silently as possible, just barely fumbling with the controls of his coffee machine. She pours a tiny bit of vanilla syrup into her coffee and sets the bottle back on the counter before taking a sip.

It's only when she's slipping onto one of the barstools, setting her cup down on the counter in front of her, that it hits her.

How absolutely comfortable she is in his home.

And how there's already pieces of her sitting around.

He bought coffee flavoring he hates, just for her, and it sits in his kitchen like it belongs there. Much like the tube of mascara that she knows is on his vanity, and the bottle of her shampoo in his bathroom—he bought that for her, too, telling her he remembered because he loves the cherry scent.

And here she is, in his kitchen, in the middle of the night. His daughter is just upstairs, asleep. He's asleep, too. And she's sitting here, comfortable and free, sipping her coffee like she's in her own home.

She's never been this comfortable in anyone else's house.

And it's only been a few weeks since they got together.

She takes another sip of her coffee, swallowing it with a loud gulp. The mug is warm in her hands, and it's familiar, reminds her of lunches she spent sitting across from him at the school, of days when he would hand her coffee and that was the extent of their relationship.

It's been less than two months since that was their reality.

In two months, they've gone from that to _this._ It should scare her, right?

Why doesn't it scare her?

She takes yet another drink from her cup, finishing up her coffee with a few final sips. She pushes herself from the bar stool and walks back to the kitchen. The running water is almost too loud for the silence of the apartment and she rinses her cup quickly, dries it at the same speed before setting it back in the cupboard.

It should scare her. Under other circumstances, with anybody else, it would terrify her, have her running for the hills.

But with him, now…it just…doesn't.

She feels her shoulder tense, her spine snapping straight as her steps halt, right under the threshold between the living room and his office.

It's because of him. It's because of him and only him.

She hasn't changed. She's still flighty and guarded, still wounded and complicated, and she knows that she still has the very bad habit of keeping people out of her life out of fear that they'll hurt her. She's still the teacher who gave up on her dreams and settled for a job she's grown to somewhat enjoy. The daughter who still cries some nights, when the memory of her mother's murder is too vivid in her mind.

But here she is. Happy and having fun and more comfortable than she's been in years. Because of him.

That should probably scare her, too. But instead it has a giddy smile spreading across her face, her hands joining in front of her, twisting nervously as she pauses in front of his office.

A spark runs up her spine, joy welling in her chest along with that feeling she really cannot place.

Or that she can place but can't face just yet.

Still, it's electrifying, has her toes curling against the wooden floor and her smile widening even more. She takes a few quick steps, her body buzzing, until she reaches the gap in the bookshelves that leads to his bedroom.

He sound asleep now, lying on his back. One arm is draped over his stomach, the other across the bed where she usually sleeps next to him. His lips are parted and he breathes softly, inaudibly.

Part of her wants to crawl over him, wake him with the trail of her lips down his chest, up his neck, with her wandering hands and the swirl of her hips over his.

But he looks so peaceful. So happy in sleep and even though she's wide awake, she can't bring herself to wake him at all.

So she steps back, retreating into his office until she finds herself standing by his chair.

She's watched him sitting in it, typing or reading, and has enjoyed curling up in a ball in the living chair at the opposite side of the room, has enjoyed watching him. And she loves his reaction when he catches her watching, like that once time when he swept her into his arms and plopped her down on the wooden surface of his desk, worshipped her like there was nothing he wanted more than to make her fall apart.

A grin spreads across her face, and for a split second she reconsiders waking him, but as soon as her gaze lands on his sleeping form, she knows she can't.

She drops into his chair instead, letting the sweat swirl, bringing her with it. Her palms splay over the cover of his computer, over the wood of his desk. She reaches down and curls her hand around the handle of one of his drawers, letting curiosity drive her to draw it open.

What she finds isn't what she expected.

It's a manuscript. Crisp and white and untouched, the title and his name printed across the front page.

 _Heat Wave by Richard Castle_

She reaches for it, her hand curling around the bulky collection of pages. It's heavy in her hand, much bigger than the finished copy of any of his novels.

And she flips the first page, finds the dedication printed across the next page.

 _To the extraordinary KB and all my friends at the school._

Her breath escapes her, studying and weak and her fingers come up to trace the letters, the small print getting lost beneath her fingertip.

He dedicated a book to her.

He called her extraordinary, printed it on paper he plans on showing the world, and dedicated a book to her.

She can't _not_ read it.

So she turns the next page, and starts with chapter one.

* * *

 **Once again, a _huge_ thank you goes to Lindsey for being a such a fab beta.**


	20. Chapter 20

_**Oxymoron**_

* * *

 _oxymoron:_ (noun) a figure of speech in which apparently contradictory terms appear in conjunction

* * *

She's not in bed next to him when he wakes up. His eyes slide open to find an empty bed, the sheets and comforter drawn up to the pillow that smells of her shampoo. He reaches over, his arm still heavy and half-asleep, and lets his hand trail across the fabric, as though his hazy mind expects to find her there anyway.

But she's not there, of course. She's gone.

He fights the well of disappointment in his chest as he rolls onto his back. Usually, he would take her weight with him, drawn giggles from her throat with kisses to her shoulder and neck until she twisted in his arms and pressed her lips against his. But today, he has to go and find her.

He crawls out of bed and pulls on his boxers and a shirt before stepping out of the bedroom, through his office and into the living room.

She's sitting in the kitchen, wearing pajama pants she brought from her place and one of his shirts. Her shoulders are hunched, her hands wrapped tightly around a mug. It draws a smile to his face.

That is, until she turns around, her brows furrowed, lips twisted into a frown, the mug pressed tightly against her chest and he realizes something is most definitely wrong.

Because he fell asleep with her in his arms, with his nose buried in her hair and her hand resting on his chest. And now she looks upset. _Really_ upset. As she turns back around without saying a word, and returns to being hunched over the counter, staring at the white stone, at nothing.

And _that's_ when he realizes what's sitting next to her, right by her elbow, white and familiar and his stomach sinks because she was _never_ supposed to find out like this.

He's not even sure he had planned on her finding out at all.

But there it sits, and as though sensing that he noticed it, she reaches out and flattens her palm over the top page.

He watches, dread making his stomach sink, as she flips open the first page, reads out loud for him to here.

"To the extraordinary KB and all my friends at the school."

The dedication. The dedication of the book he wrote because of her, _for_ her.

He steps towards her, slow and steady, his steps echoing through the quiet of morning, but she doesn't turn back towards him, not even when he's standing at her side. His one hand lands on the manuscript, the other on her shoulder, which he squeezes gently.

"I mean it," he says. "You are extraordinary."

Her frown deepens, her eyes falling closed as she lets out a sigh. And then she shrugs his hand off her, and turns to him, her eyes sparkling with anger, her arms crossing over his chest.

"That's not what this is about and you know it," she says.

He steps back, leaning against the barstool behind him as she snatches the manuscript out from beneath his hand. She flips it open to a random page, and then slams it shut like she can't find what she's looking for, her gaze lifting from the white pages up to him.

But she doesn't look angry, or intimidating. Her eyes have welled with tears, and her hands are clutched tightly around the manuscript, as though it's holding her steady.

She looks vulnerable. Broken.

"How could you?" she breathes, her voice cracking around the words. Her gaze falls once again, a tear falling from her eye to land on the white of the paper pressed against her thighs.

And he wants to wrap his arms around her, wants to draw her against him and wipe away her tears and reassure her that everything is okay.

But he's pretty sure that's the last thing she wants.

So he waits, his hands curling tight around the edges of the barstool, his eyes locked on the top of her head as she wipes at her eyes, sniffling.

"You based the book on me," she whispers, the words still weak.

He nods. "I did," he confirms. "It was meant to be a compliment."

She nods this time, just enough for him to catch the way her eyes are squeezed shut, the tight press of her lips. His breath catches in his chest, his heart breaking for her.

Because it looks like he already broke hers.

"It is one," she says. "It would be…a compliment. But Castle, I don't…how could you?" She looks up at him again, finally, but she looks just as upset, just as vulnerable. "I told you those things in confidence," she mumbles. "I told you those things because I thought you l–"

And she cuts herself off, her eyes going wide, still gleaming with tears.

And he knows what she was going to say, can feel his heart swell with it despite the weight of worry still heavy in his gut.

 _I thought you loved me._

"You thought I what?" he asks, reaching for her. His hand curls around her arm for half a second, but she shrugs him off once again.

She sucks in a slow breath, her eyes falling closed. "I thought you cared about me," she whispers. "I thought you…I thought I could trust you. And then you go and put my secrets in a _book_?"

Oh. _Oh._

"Your mother?" he breathes.

She nods, and finally, she stands, face to face with him, the manuscript pressed against her stomach. "I don't tell _anyone_ about that, Castle. There are _two_ people at the school who know, besides you. Lanie, because she's my best friend, and Montgomery, because of the depression I dealt with when he first hired me. That's _it._ And telling you…that was a really big deal for me. That was…me. I _trusted_ you and you…"

"I did nothing, Kate," he promises.

She shakes her head. "You wrote a _book,_ " she says, and she shoves the manuscript at him. "And you based a character on me. And that character's mom was murdered, Castle. You put my mom's murder in your book."

"I didn't," he argues, reaching for her once again, but this time, she walks away.

"You didn't?" she says, incredulity lacing the words. "Then what do you call it Castle? Was _Nikki Heat's_ mother _manslaughtered_ instead of murdered? Is that the difference?"

"No, Kate, that's not…it's not that," he says. "Nikki Heat's mother was murdered, but it wasn't based on the fact that your mother…that you lost your mom."

"Oh?" she says. "It doesn't?"

"It doesn't," he repeats.

"Then what the hell inspired that part, Castle?"

He frowns. " _Nothing_ inspired it. It's not…you're not going to believe me, Kate, but you have to let me explain," he begs.

But she shakes her head, stepping past him. She's crying again, wiping at her eyes with her free hand, and he watches, helpless, as she pulls the door open.

She turns back to him before stepping out. "I just…I need some space," she breathes, slipping on her shoes..

And the manuscript hits the floor, and the door slams behind her as she leaves.

* * *

Showing up at Lanie's apartment was the last thing she expected to do after leaving his place, and yet here she stands, in the empty hallway, her hand suspended in mid-air.

She knocks, the quiet sound filling the hall and her eyes fall closed, her hand pressing hard against her stomach.

She's still wearing pajama pants and his shirt, didn't bother changing before storming out of his apartment, and didn't stop at her place before coming here.

She really should have stopped to change.

But Lanie is already pulling the door open, her brows furrowed in curiosity, only for her eyes to widen in recognition, a smile spreading across her face. It fades instantly.

"Kate?" breathes Lanie. "You okay?"

She nods on instinct, and then shakes her head, and shrugs. "I…I don't know," she admits. "Are you busy?"

"Just grading bio papers," answers Lanie. "But never too busy to talk to you. Come on in."

So she does, stepping into the small apartment that she almost never visits and making her way to the couch.

It's early. The clock on Lanie's stove tells her it's barely past nine thirty, that she really shouldn't be here. But Lanie doesn't seem to mind, as she shoves the biology papers back into their folder before coming to sit in the living room, too.

"So," says Lanie. "What's up?"

She shrugs one shoulder, drawing her legs up onto the couch, the soles of her shoes pressing against the cushions.

"Well, you're in your PJ's, so I figure you came from Castle's, right?" says Lanie, and she nods her head. "And I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that something happened between you two."

She nods again, drawing her legs tighter against her stomach so her chin rests in the valley between her knees. "He wrote a book about me," she whispers, her eyes falling closed.

"And you're here?" asks Lanie. "How are you not back at his place, fucking his brains out?"

She sighs. "It's not…not like that," she mumbles.

"It's not?" says Lanie. "The man wrote a book about you, Kate. A best-selling author wrote a book about _you_ , and you're telling me this isn't a good thing."

She sighs, pressing her forehead against her knees this time as she nods once again. "The main character in the book, the one based on me?" she whispers. "Her mom was murdered."

And Lanie goes still. "Oh."

"Yeah."

"Is it…based on your mom?" asks Lanie. "Because he knows the story, right?"

She nods again. "He knows, yeah," she says. "But he says the book…that it wasn't based on my mom."

"Oh?" breathes Lanie. "Well, I don't think he would lie to you about something like that. He loves you, Kate, I don't think he would purposefully deceive you, especially not about something that means so much to you."

That has her lifting her head from her knees and turning to glare at her friend, her nails digging into her shins through the thin fabric covering them. "He doesn't _love_ me," she says. "We only been seeing each other for like a month."

"Seeing each other?" Lanie scoffs. "Kate, _seeing each other_ is like dinner and a movie every now and then, maybe getting laid. It doesn't include making out at work and revealing your family secrets and letting him meet your dad, or him letting you meet his daughter. It might have only been a few months, Kate, but what you and Castle are doing? It's definitely more than seeing each other."

"Then what would you call it?" she mumbles.

"If I had to put a label on it," says Lanie, "I would say you're his girlfriend. And you know what comes with being his girlfriend?"

"What?" she huffs, like a child.

Because she already knows what Lanie's going to say, can't decide whether it's anticipation of dread that wells in her chest and makes her stomach churn with nausea.

"Accepting that the man's in love with you," says Lanie. "And that, if you're not already there, too, you're definitely falling in love with him."

She draws back once again, her hands clenching even tighter around her legs. "I'm not _in love_ with him, Lanie," she hisses. "It's only been a little while. I can't already…be in love with him. It's way too soon."

Lanie rolls her eyes. "Fine," she breathes.

It really doesn't sound like she thinks it's fine at all. It sounds an awful lot like Lanie thinks she's in denial.

Which she _isn't._

"That doesn't change the fact that Castle is head over heels in love with you," says Lanie. "Which means he wouldn't lie to you, Kate, not about something like this, which means you need to explain to me what he said so we can decide whether or not this reaction is worth it."

She sighs. "I'm not overreacting."

"I've yet to see any evidence of that," says Lanie. "So, what did he say? After he told you that he didn't base the mom's murder in his book on your mom, what did he say?"

She sighs, her mind flashing back to the pain that had flickered across his face, that had darkened his features. The begging in his eyes had been obvious, ripped her to the very core, as painful as reading about Nikki Heat's mother's death in his book did.

It was so hard to leave.

She wonders if he knows that.

"Kate?" says Lanie.

She sighs, pressing her forehead against her knees this time, letting her patellas press into the sockets of her eyes. "Nothing," she whispers. "He asked if he could explain."

"He asked to explain, but said nothing?"

She bites at her lip, nodding her head the best she can. "I didn't let him," she admits. "He asked to explain and I said he couldn't, I said I needed space and next thing I know…I'm here."

And the painful sinking in her gut, the sharp well of emotion in her chest has tears welling in her eyes, a soft whimper breaking free from her throat, as Lanie lets out a sigh that sounds a lot like exasperation.

* * *

He forces himself out of the living room, letting the blanket that had been draped across his lap pool around his ankles.

And before he can question it, he reaches down and swipes the manuscript off the coffee table, drawing it up against his chest, curling his fingers around the edges just as Kate had earlier.

He clings to it the way she did, for a reason so very different from hers.

It's odd, really. That the very thing that caused their fight is the thing he's clinging to. But it's the last thing she touched, and the story he wrote about her, to honor her, to immortalize her on paper, and he can't let it go. Can't let the words, driven by her beautiful smile and pain-filled eyes, get lost because of this.

He can, however, honor her wishes.

So he steps into his office, past the chair where she sits sometimes to read, to the desk that has seen way too much of them on days when hands are wandering before they even crossed the threshold into the apartment, days when the bedroom is just a little too far.

He reaches down, presses his palm flat against the wooden surface, and tries not to let the image of her sliding into his lap, her palms pressed against his jaw, attack his senses when he drops into his seat.

It's amazing really, how much of an effect she had on his life, on his home, even in such a short period of time.

It's sad how quickly it fell apart around him.

He drops the manuscript onto his desk, hearing the pile of paper thud against the wood. His head falls against the back of his chair, his hand curling tight around the armrests.

And the same thoughts that have haunted him since he watched her walk away flash back into his mind unwelcome, making his heart clench and regret well in his stomach.

He should have followed her.

He should have changed the book back when she first told him about her mother.

He should have told her sooner.

He should have done something, _anything_ , to prevent this.

He sighs, forcing those thoughts away. It's too late now. He hid something from her and now she's gone and even though all she asked for was space, he's not sure she's ever coming back. It has his stomach churning, the idea of going back to being nothing but co-workers with her, the idea of standing outside his door and having her avoid his gaze just like she had for three years before they became something wonderful.

His eyes slide back open, his hands loosening around the armrests as he spins at his desk. His right hand reaches out, swipes the manuscript towards the center of the desk until the pile of papers is sitting atop the closed lid of his computer.

He traces the title with his fingertip, and flips open the front page, the dedication staring back at him, echoing in his mind in the angry tone of her voice.

The book was for her, dedicated to her, about her. The last thing he expected when he started writing it was that it would tear them apart like this, break her heart like it so evidently did.

He should have told her sooner, before she could find it. He had planned to tell her sooner, had watched her sleep at night and wondered how he could explain. And then she would roll over in her sleep and her face would press against his arm, a sigh escaping her lips, and he would lose his train of thought because she has been so very beautiful.

She's always so beautiful.

And now he might never get to spend her eyelids flutter with dreams, feel her hair tickle his chin as she tucks herself against his chest again.

All because of this book.

With another sigh, he pushes himself up from his chair and heads to the bedroom. He tugs on his phone until the charger pops free before turning back towards the office. He drops back into his seat, letting it spin beneath him until his knee hits the inside of his desk.

And he dials Gina's number.

She answers on the third ring, the clipped tone to her voice that he's grown to recognize after years of working with her, after going through a divorce from her.

"Black Pawn Publishing, Gina Cowell speaking."

He sighs. "Hey, Gina. It's Rick," he says. "We need to talk."

That has her perking up, and he can see the way her spine straightens, the way she swipes at her bangs when she hears something she's happy about. He's seen it so many times in meetings, before he hit writer's block and became a teacher.

And as much as she's his publisher and ex-wife, he hates to upset her.

But this has to be done.

"You know the manuscript I told you about, the one that was almost finished?" he breathes, his gaze drifting to the crisp white pages.

It's beautiful. And he thinks it should be published.

But if this is what Kate wants, this is what she gets.

"I finished it, but it can't be published," he says. "I'm sorry, Gina, but I just…I can't."

* * *

She makes her way back home before noon, stepping across the threshold into her apartment, ignoring the gust of cold air that seems to swirl around her when she closes the door.

She hasn't been here since Thursday morning, and now it's Saturday and it hasn't been all that long, but it's longer than she's usually away from her apartment. Away from her home.

Oddly enough, it doesn't really feel like home right now.

She ignores it, though, walking through the apartment and making her way to her bedroom to shed her pajama pants and tug the shirt over her head. She ends up pulling on a pair of oversized sweatpants she's had for years and a tank top she only ever wears under her blouses.

And she keeps ignoring the chill that races up her spine when she steps back into her living room, swiping the essays she was supposed to grade for yesterday but didn't off the table and brings them with her. She sinks onto the couch, drawing her legs up next to her, situates a pillow against the armrest and leans back. The folder of essays lands against her thighs.

Her heart is racing, breaking, because now the image of him is flashing back into her mind, memories of sliding into his lap, pressing her lips against his, is flooding her mind. Memories of quiet movie nights filling with laughter as they fling popcorn at each other until the bowl is on the floor and he's hovering over her, her legs already wrapped around his waist, breaking the barrier in her mind that she set up this morning.

She can't think like that. She can't think of him.

Because if she does, she'll crumble, and either fall apart and start crying like a teenage girl who just broke up with her first boyfriend, or go and show up at his door.

She's not willing to do either one.

So she shakes the thoughts from her mind, her grip on the essays tightening as she presses them harder against her thighs. She has to get this finished. She has to focus on this.

She has to stop thinking about him before she does something stupid.

And that's how she spends her day, grading essays. She ends up reading a few of them more times than she usually would, her mind losing track of the words, of thoughts, of everything. It goes foggy around the edges, distractions blurring what she should be doing in exchange for what she wants to think about.

In exchange for what still has her heart pounding when she slides off the couch and reaches for the phone.

Her thumb hovers over his picture, but she doesn't call him.

She calls the nearest Chinese food place instead, ordering her favorites to have them delivered before curling up in a ball on her couch once again. Her chin presses against her knees, her chest pressed against her thighs. She sucks in a slow breath, feels her chest heaving with it, the tears threatening to fall from her eyes.

She breathes, forcing back the dears, until there's a loud knock on her door, and she jumps off the couch to answer it.

Her food comes in a styrofoam clamshell container. One of the first times he came here, he teased her for the styrofoam temple in her fridge.

Just like he still teases her about the soups she brings to the school for lunch every day.

"Are you okay, Miss?"

She blinks the thought away, the tears back, nodding her head up and down as she slaps the money into the delivery man's hand. "I'm fine," she mumbles.

And then he's gone, and she's closing the door behind him, turning back to the empty apartment.

It still feels cold.

She eats her food on the couch, staring at the blank TV screen, which she turns on for a moment, only to scroll through the guide and turn it off again, uninterested.

It's still early when she finishes eating, and she sinks back against the couch. There's nothing to do. The essays are graded, and while her gaze drifts across her collection of Nebula 9 DVDs and movies he left for her to watch, they make her think of him, and that's the last thing she wants to do. And her bookshelf brings back memories of that manuscript, of the joy that had welled in her chest only to be crushed by the realization that Nikki Heat's mother had been murdered.

There's nothing to do. Nothing to keep her from thinking about him.

She crawls off the couch, ignoring the way the world tilts and her stomach churns and the image of him refuses to fade from her mind. Her shirt comes off in the hallway, her pants and underwear landing on the bathroom floor before she steps into the shower, turning the water to scalding.

This pain will distract her. That much she knows. It's a coping mechanism she's used so many times before.

Too many times before.

And it works, until all she can picture is his smiling face, foggy because of the steam, and all she can feel are his fingers in her hair, his palms travelling over the planes of her back.

Him. And everything she felt. Everything she _feels_ , despite everything, despite herself.

She sinks to the bottom of the tub, her back pressed against the porcelain, the tears finally allowed to fall. She presses the heels of her hands against her eyes, gives up and covers her mouth to muffle her sob.

And she stays there until the water goes cold, until she's fumbling for the tap and turning the shower off, until she's stumbling over the edge of her tub, into her bedroom. She swipes her phone off the vanity on her way.

Her head hits the pillow, her hair and body still soaking wet when she lands on her bed. Her phone is still clutched in her shaking hand.

She swipes her thumb across the screen, types in her passcode quickly, and brings up his contact page.

Her heart stutters, skipping a beat, telling her she should call him, she should let him explain. Maybe then, she could stop crying, stop missing him.

Instead, she drops the phone onto her bed, another sob breaking free from her throat.

She cries until she falls asleep, and the image of him is the last thing she sees, the phantom feeling of his arm wrapped around her waist, his chest pressed against her back, the last thing she feels before sleep pulls her under.

* * *

 **Once again, I apologize in getting this chapter up, and I would like to thank Lindsey for all her help.**


	21. Chapter 21

_**Oxymoron**_

* * *

 _oxymoron:_ (noun) a figure of speech in which apparently contradictory terms appear in conjunction

* * *

"What did I say about cell phones in class?" she calls out, loud enough for the entire class to hear.

Because silent work is supposed to be about doing work, not about listening to music or playing games or texting, and annoyance wells in her stomach when her students look up at her. Their eyes are wide, like deers caught in headlights, and her grip on her pen tightens.

They've been looking at her like that a lot lately, have stared at her like she lost her mind, have whispered about her in the halls.

It's what she focuses on when Castle's standing next to her and her mind seems to get stuck on memories of makeout sessions in the copying room, of _more_ in the storage closets over lunch. But she's not allowed to think about that anymore, has to force herself not to admire the way his blue shirt brings out his eyes, so she focuses instead on the whispers of her students.

She knows way too much about certain students and their significant others now, but it's kept her from climbing Castle like a tree and forgetting about everything that went wrong.

With a sigh, she pushes those thoughts back and stands from her seat. Her pen hits the surface of her desk as she steps towards the boy that had drawn her attention away from the papers she had been grading. His phone is still clutched between his fingers, pressed against his thighs, just barely hidden by his desk.

She steps up to him, holding her hand out, and snaps her fingers. "What did I say about cell phones in class?" she repeats.

He frowns. "You used to let us–"

"Yes, and last Monday I told you that there would be no more phones in class. Did you forget that, Dustin?"

He shakes his head, almost desperate as he rushes to switch the phone off, his head dipping against the unwanted attention. "No," he whispers, so softly she doubts the student sitting behind him can hear.

But she does, and she snaps her fingers again. "Then hand it over," she demands.

He does, holding the device out until she takes it from him. His hand scrambles for his pencil, and he starts writing almost instantly, drawing her attention to his page.

He hadn't even started his work yet.

"You can pick it up after class," she instructs before turning away and returning to her desk. She reaches for her pen, shooting her students a glare before going back to her work.

No one else bothers her until the bell rings.

Almost instantly, Dustin is at her desk, asking for his phone. She hands it over without a word, and he leaves in a haste, struggling to balance his books in his arms. The other students leave just as quickly, the final bell their saving grace, allowing them to escape from her class, from the school.

She goes back to grading papers until a shadow is cast over her desk, drawing her gaze back upwards.

Standing there is the last person she expects to see. Her arms are crossed over her chest, a math textbook balanced in her hands, her eyes downcast, her head dipped so her dark bangs cast a shadow across her pale skin. Her cheeks are stained pink.

"Jordan?" she asks. "Is there anything I can help you with?"

The student shakes her head, still not making eye contact. "No, Miss Beckett. This isn't about class," she says, the words so soft they're barely audible.

"Okay," breathes Kate. "Then what's this about?"

Jordan looks up at her then, her eyes wide with nerves. "I know it's none of my business, but I know you and Mr. Castle broke up," she says softly.

And her lips part around a response, around an argument, instantly. Her heart races in her chest, her breath getting caught in her throat, her hand going still.

"I don't mean to pry," says Jordan. "And I didn't want to say anything, because you're just my teacher and who you're dating is…none of my business, but I can't help it, Miss Beckett."

She sighs, the sag of her shoulders almost painful, and she sucks in another breath through her nose. "Why couldn't you not say anything, Jordan?" she asks, keeping the words soft and curious, fighting the anger sparking in her mind.

"Because you're not happy anymore," says the young girl. "I mean, you weren't really happy when the semester started, but then everyone started talking about how you and Mr. Castle were together and you were happy. And I know you were together and that it wasn't just rumors because of…what happened in the copying room."

Jordan's cheeks turn pink, so do hers, but it's for completely different reasons.

"And I don't know what's happened since, Miss Beckett, but I do know that you're not happy anymore, and that you and Mr. Castle aren't speaking," continues Jordan. "Which means you guys probably broke up."

Her lips part again, her hands curling tight around the armrests of her chair.

Because she didn't ask for this, for the onslaught of good memories followed by the bad ones, for the reminder that he made her happy and then betrayed her. That she hasn't said a word to him since that day, about a week and a half ago now, and has dumped every coffee he leaves on her desk into the sink in the teachers' bathroom.

"And, like I said, I know it's none of my business, but I know what it's like to be scared," says Jordan. "My parents died in a car accident just a few months ago, and I haven't wanted to be friends with anyone since, but I have a friend. His name is Lucas, and he makes me happy, just like Mr. Castle made you happy."

She opens her mouth once more, but her teeth find her lip before any words can come out. Still standing in front of her desk, Jordan dips her head, her black bangs hiding her eyes again.

"I don't know what went wrong between you and Mr. Castle," she says, "but I think that if he really made you happy, and it's something you can get over, or something that you don't know the whole story of, you should try and take him back, because you deserve to be happy, Miss Beckett." And she looks up again, her eyes still wide.

And she wants to tell Jordan it isn't the same, that a teenage friendship and an adult relationship is in no way the same thing, but she can't.

Because her mind is playing the memory of Castle begging her to let him explain on repeat, and her heart is swelling with the uncontrollable desire to forgive him.

So she says the one thing she can think of that she knows is true.

"You're right, Jordan. My personal relationship with Mr. Castle is none of your business." She blinks, letting her pen fall to her desk. "But thank you for caring enough to approach me about this."

Jordan nods. "You're welcome, Miss Beckett," she whispers. And then she's gone, rushing out the door.

And Kate tucks the papers she had been grading into her bag, leaving too, trying not to let the young girl's words get to her.

Jordan is just a teenager. She's not mature enough to understand this. And she doesn't even know what happened.

And yet she spends the entire drive home haunted by the advice she's been given, her grip on the steering wheel tight, her foot a little too heavy on the gas pedal.

She tries not to think about it, but she does.

And it has her staring at her door, debating showing up at his. It has her staring at his picture on her phone. It has her drawing her computer onto her lap and pulling up the document she tried to forget.

And printing it, and tucking it into her bag for tomorrow.

* * *

The knock on his classroom door makes him jump, his pen clattering to the floor when it falls from his hand. His gaze slides up, and he expects to find Alexis standing there, probably ready to tell him she's spending the afternoon with friends or staying late to watch the basketball game.

But it's not Alexis standing there at all. It's Kate.

And he has to clench his teeth to keep his jaw from hitting the ground.

They haven't spoken in over a week and a half. She's been avoiding him at all costs. She's the last person he expected to knock on his door this Thursday afternoon.

But there she is, her blazer buttoned up over her stomach, reaching up to adjust the pins holding her hair in place. Her eyes are downcast, her cheeks stained a soft shade of pink. She looks…shy.

So unlike the version of her that stormed out of his apartment in her pajamas, leaving him heartbroken, his manuscript sitting on the floor by the door.

"Hi," she whispers.

He blinks, shaking the memory from his head. "Hi," he echoes. "Are you…okay?"

She nods, but then shakes her head as she steps into his classroom. She looks almost wobbly, her steps slow and hesitant until she's standing in front of his desk, her eyes finally meeting his.

And she looks so vulnerable, so open. So beautiful.

"I need you to not say anything," she says, voice still soft. "Because if you say something I'll chicken out and leave and I don't want to do that."

He can't bring himself to argue. "Okay."

She nods back at him.

And then she's unbuttoning her blazer, shoving her hand beneath it, the palm of her hand grazing the fabric of her shirt. She pulls out a piece of paper, folded up into a tiny rectangle, and draws the edges apart to reveal a full sheet. Because of the light behind her, he can see the shadow of ink that her eyes must be locked on.

She sneaks one more glance at him before looking back at the page.

"For most people, what's most important to them is a person, or a pet, or something valuable like their phone or a piece of jewelry. That's not the case for me, though. In fact, the thing that's most important to be is worth no more than thirty dollars. It's a book, _In a Hail of Bullets_ by Richard Castle."

Her cheeks are beet red when she looks up again, but a smile curls at the corners of her mouth when she sees him.

Because his jaw has dropped, his hand gripping the armrests of his desk chair tightly, and he must look funny because a laugh bubbles up from her chest despite the vulnerability shining in her eyes.

And then she clears her throat, her gaze returning to the page in her hands.

"To anyone who's read his work, that may come as a surprise. To most, it's not viewed as his best work. In fact, it's his first published novel. To others, it's nothing important, but to me…it has been a saving grace," she says. "My mother read it shortly before she passed away, and I read it shortly afterwards. It connected me to her, it distracted me from the pain and it reminded me that justice is possible, that the truth is always out there."

Her eyes gleam in the classroom's bright light, and she reaches up with one hand to wipe at her bottom lid. The other starts shaking, the paper shaking with it.

"To this day," she continues, her voice cracking around the words. She pauses, sucking in a deep breath. "To this day, I turn to it when I need a reminder. When the memories and the pain that comes with them gets to be too much, I curl up on the couch with a blanket and that book, and it keeps me from getting lost in grief all over again."

And he remembers the day he told her to curl up on the couch and watch her favorite show, when he told her to distract herself. It has his heart, already pained and breaking for her, skipping a beat. He wants to reach for her, wrap her in his arms and wipe away her tears, hold her until she's smiling again, but her eyes are still locked on the page, her lips parting around words spoken so quietly he barely hears them.

"That book saved my life, and to this day is something I cherish, something so very important to me." Her gaze flicks up to him, her eyes locking on his. Her lips quirk into a small smile, despite the tears in her eyes. "Who would have thought the man who wrote it would one day be so important to me, too?" she breathes.

There's no answer, no words at all, just her staring back at him as he stands and draws her into his arms. She melts into his embrace, and lets him press a kiss to the side of her head, and for a moment, he forgets about the way she stormed out, about his manuscript sitting on the floor.

All he can think about is the fact that's she _here,_ and the piece of paper crushed between them. And that he never wants to let her go again.

* * *

Her forehead is pressed against the side of his neck, her arms wrapped around his waist when her eyes flutter open. His lips are still pressed against the side of her head, his arms banded around her back, holding her close like he never, ever wants to let her go.

She doesn't ever want to leave.

But she pulls away, hesitant and slow as her hands flatten over his sides before dropping to her own, curling around the fabric of her blazer. The paper she brought with her falls to the floor, and while his gaze follows it, she doesn't care, not enough to look away from him, to tear her gaze from the awe still shining in his eyes.

"I'm sorry," she breathes.

He looks back up at her, his eyes going wide as he shakes his head. "No. No, don't apologize. I should be apologizing," he says. "I shouldn't have written a book about you without asking you first. At the very least, Kate, I should have told you once we started getting close. You deserved at least that."

"I still should have let you explain," she tell him.

Her heart is pounding, her breathing fast as he keeps staring at her with wide eyes filled with awe, with _love,_ that she's finally able to recognize and accept. Love that has her mind running wild and her hands shaking and her knees going weak, that has her wanting to step forward and press her lips against his.

She wants to forget this very crucial step of talking, but her mind is still telling her that she did that once, and was absolutely miserable.

So she leans down, feeling his gaze still locked on her, and plucks the piece of paper off the floor. It's familiar, pinched between her fingers, crumpled ever so slightly. The words she read to him stare back at her, the short paragraph about him and his book and how much he helped her before he ever met her.

She wish he knew how much he's helped her since they became friends, since they became more.

"I presented the anecdote to my class, but I did all four parts of the _All That I Am_ project," she tells him. "I almost lied on that one. I didn't want to admit that your book, even before we met, was the most important thing in my life. It sounds…sad, but it's the truth. And you…you deserved to know."

He reaches for her, his hand curling around her elbow, his thumb drifting across the protrusion of her bones. "I'm glad you told me," he whispers. "About…everything."

She smiles. "Me, too," she breathes. "Because I needed you to know that I do love your books, Rick, and that I realize now that I should have let you explain, like you asked, before storming out."

He opens his mouth again, but she reaches forward, curling her hand around his bicep, squeezing gently. She shakes her head, telling him not to bother. She doesn't need his explanation, not now. She just needs…him.

But now he looks worried, his brow creased, so she smiles.

"You don't have to explain. I trust you. I trusted you with that for a reason, and…I was stupid to think you only cared for you book," she says. "You were there for me. You were…the best friend I've ever had and so much more, and Castle, I know that whatever your explanation is, I don't…need to hear it."

His eyes widen, his jaw falling ever so slightly. Her hand lifts from his arm to curl around his jaw, her gaze falling to his lips.

"I trust you," she breathes, her lips brushing over his.

The pounding of her heart tells her she might do more than trust him, but instead of telling him, she seals her lips over his.

It's amazing. It's gentle. It's so very sweet.

He reaches forward, one hand cradling her jaw, the other curling around her hip, rubbing circles against her skin. She steps closer to him, lips never parting from his, wrapping one arm around his neck and knotting her fingers in the hair at the base of his skull.

He's wonderful. She didn't even realize how much she missed _this_ , the beauty of tentative, sweet touches like she's only ever truly known with him.

Because this kiss…it's so much like their first one, so very _perfect_.

He's pulling away too soon, though, his thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone, his eyes fluttering open until his gaze locks on hers. A small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, shy and tentative.

"Forgive me?" he breathes.

"As long as you forgive me."

He kisses her again, and this time it has her knees quaking, her heart pounding.

"You're forgiven," he whispers against her lips.

She nods. "Good."

Because there's so much more that she's missed, from movie nights spent on her couch to lazy weekend morning spent curled up in bed, to the way his fingers massage her scalp when he washes her hair for her. And…more.

Her arms loop around his neck, and she steps forward, pressing her body against his, her lips pressing hard against his mouth, her tongue slicking against his. He grasps at her hips, drawing her tighter against him. Her leg comes up to wrap around his thigh, a moan escaping her, only to be swallowed by him.

 _This._ She missed this, too.

* * *

She turns in his arms, his hands framing her ribs as she leans up to press a gentle kiss to his lips, another to his jaw, her bare chest pressed against his. The sheet is tangled between her legs, between the two of them, her head resting on his pillow, in her bed, and it's beautiful, _extraordinary._

"I missed you," he breathes into her hair, squeezing her waist. "I hate that I hurt you. I mean, you should have heard Gina's reaction when I told her I wouldn't let the book be published–"

"Gina? Your publisher?" she breathes, her lips brushing against his chest. "You told her you couldn't publish the book?"

He clutches her waist, drawing her back up to him. His hands leave her side to frame her face, his fingers sweeping messy strands of hair out of her eyes. She smiles up at him, but he doesn't smile back, his gaze staying locked on hers until she blinks of at him, her gaze going serious.

"Of course I told her I couldn't publish the book," he tells her. "It upset you. It made you leave. It made you feel like I violated your privacy and betrayed you, Kate. I couldn't…I _wouldn't_ let it get published knowing how you felt about it, how much I hurt you with it."

He reaches up, offering a smile this time as he brushes his thumb across her chin, leans down to press a kiss to her nose until a smile spreads across her face. It takes her a second to run her fingers through his hair, to brush a kiss to his lips. She's still pressed up against him, gloriously naked, her legs tangled with his, and yet he finds himself focusing on the smile spread across her face, beautiful and sweet.

"I want you to publish the book," she whispers. "From what I read, it was a great book, Castle, and it will sell, and people will enjoy it. Maybe someone will find solace in it like I did with _In a Hail of Bullets._ " Her fingers comb through his hair again. "It deserves to be published. And you're going to publish it."

"Kate–"

She silences him with a kiss, just a peck to his lips that cuts him off, has him staring at her with wide eyes, his lips pursed.

"Call Gina. Send her the manuscript. Get the book published," she tells him. " _Later._ "

He smiles, nodding his head without a word. Her hand trails down his neck, over his shoulders, down his arms. Her lips press against his once again, softer this time, lingering for a moment. Her toes curl against his calf as she presses herself harder against him, and he opens his mouth for her, to her, his hands still curled around the sharp angles of her jaw.

She shoves him onto his back, rolling over him so her thighs are straddling his hips. It has her pulling away, her hands pressed against his chest, her eyes wide, dark.

"You okay?" she breathes. "You seem…distracted."

He nods, his hand coming up to draw the curls of her hair over one shoulder. "I'm great," he promises. "I just…I want to ask you something."

She nods back at him, drawing her lip between her teeth. "Ask away," she says, the words soft, almost hesitant.

His hand trails down her back, against the curve at the dip of her spine. "Memorial Day weekend is coming up, and we get Monday off," he tells her, and she nods in confirmation. "And I want you to come up to the Hamptons with me, Alexis and Mother, to celebrate…us. "

Her mouth falls open, her lips parting on a silent gasp. Her fingers curl against his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin. "The Hamptons? With your family?"

He chuckles. "Don't act like you've never met them, like you don't know they love you," he teases, squeezing his hands in what he hopes is comfort.

It only has her eyes going wider.

And it takes him a moment to realize what he said. _They love you._ It's so much, giant leaps and bounds after such a short while, and yet his heart stutters with the knowledge that it's true. That his family, his _daughter_ loves her, this woman who's still staring at him with wide eyes.

That he loves her, Kate, more than he ever imagined he would.

"You're right," she whispers. "No, yeah, you're right."

He squeezes her hips again, his hands trailing upwards to span the curves of her waist. "You don't have to come if you don't want to," he tells her. "I just thought it would be a good way to…celebrate everything that's happened in the past little while."

"The becoming friends, getting together, the hot sex, the fight, the getting back together, and the even hotter makeup sex?"

He laughs. "If you want to put it like that, then yeah," he tells her.

She smiles back down at him, and leans down to press her lips to his, to dust a kiss to his mouth, so gentle, so soft, that it has him doubting that they're actually in her bed, her straddling his lap, her bare body on display before him.

They don't usually do tenderness like this, not so innocently, as her hands span his shoulders, running over his chest, over his sides until she pulls away, a smile gracing her lips.

"I'll come," she says. "I'd love to join you and your family in the Hamptons, Castle."

She kisses him again, harder this time, silencing his reaction with the press of her body against his, the alignment of her chest, her hips, with his.

He doesn't expect her to pull back again, knows her well enough to know when her kisses reveal her intent, when her intent is to not stop until she's rolling off him, completely sated. But she does pull away, a wicked grin on her face, a spark lighting up her eyes. Her hands press against his chest and she pushes herself down, so she's straddling his thighs instead of his hips, and then again so she's straddling his shins.

"Now," she breathes, "did I ever tell you how much I liked the dedication?"

* * *

 **Once again, a huge thank you goes to Lindsey for all her help.**


	22. Chapter 22

_**Oxymoron**_

* * *

 _oxymoron:_ (noun) a figure of speech in which apparently contradictory terms appear in conjunction

* * *

The house is…huge. It's beautiful, standing tall with the ocean as the backdrop, the orange tint of the exterior a sharp contrast to the bright blue sky, and she doesn't even realize she's leaning close to the window, staring at it with wide eyes, until his hand lands on her knee, squeezing gently. It has her gaze sliding towards him, to find him looking back at her, smiling as the car slows to a stop.

"You like it?" he asks.

Her eyes flick out the windshield, and back to him as her hand falls to rest over his, her fingers curling into his palm. "I always forget you're rich," she admits. "I mean, you're my favorite author and I still…forget, because you're also the guy who teaches in the class next to mine."

He hums. "I don't know which one I like being more," he tells her.

Confusion furrows her brow. "Huh?"

His gaze catches hers, the blue of his eyes swirling with emotion, with joy and appreciation and love that she imagines is mirrored in her own. It's what she feels quickening her pulse, when he looks at her like that, what fills her chest with warmth like she never thought possible.

"I don't know if I prefer being your favorite author or the guy that teaches in the classroom next to yours. If I had to choose to be just one…I have no idea which one I'd choose," he whispers, and her brow furrows with confusion, her hands curling tight around his. "I mean, writing is what I love, and I know how much my books have done for you, which is amazing, Kate, but teaching led me to you and I don't think I could give that up."

And there it is: the spike in her heart rate, the stutter of her breath, the pressure in her chest, the warmth, equally overwhelming and pleasant as she leans over and presses her lips to his. She draws away with a sigh, contentment filling the small space of the car as her forehead falls to rest against his.

"Well then, it's a good thing you're both," she tells him, the words a brush of her lips against his, and his eyes go wide. "Both and more, Castle."

He smiles, and kisses her again, his thumb tracing her cheekbone after he pulls away, a smile still spread across his face, his eyes alight with joy, with love, with _everything._

The words are heavy in her chest, bubbling up her throat only to get stuck, trapped behind the well of unfamiliar emotion, the pressure to make it perfect.

So her gaze falls from his, darting to the side, out the windshield. The house is just as amazing now, stealing the breath Castle's already taken from her.

"So," she whispers, "do I get a tour?"

"Of course," he answers. "Just wait here."

And so she does, lingering in her seat as he hops out of the car, running around the front only to pause by her door. She watches as he makes a show of straightening his spine, squaring his shoulders and drawing her door open slowly. He reaches for her hand, and despite the urge to roll her eyes, she rests her palm over his.

"Welcome to Casa Castle, milady."

She chuckles, and lets him draw her to her feet, and against his side, as he dusts a kiss to the top of her head.

He's been more…touchy since they got back together, his arm wrapped firmly around her whenever he gets the chance, his hands trailing across the naked planes of her body as soon as they're alone. And despite the fact that it would usually send her running, terrified, it has her sinking into his embrace, stealing a moment of peace and comfort in his arms.

Because that's what this crazy, silly, sweet man does to her.

"Ready for the tour?"

She nods, the brush of her head against his shoulder making him pull away, putting unwelcome space between them as he steps towards the door. Once it's unlocked and he's crossing the threshold, she rushes after him, a bounce to her step that she doesn't recognize.

A pounding in her chest that only he's ever caused.

That is, until she hears the speech, the tour, the words so very practiced it has her mind snapping out of the haze he puts her in, back to reality.

To the reality where long before he met her, he was a playboy, his one-night stands printed on Page Six so very often it made her eyes roll. She spent three years treating those articles like reaffirmations of what she already knew.

It was the opposite of the man that wraps his arms around her, that ravishes her, that _loves_ her.

But as she steps through the big house, his words bleeding into the background as the click of her heels haunts her instead, all she can see is the grey ink on off-white paper. All she can picture is someone else standing here, in her shoes and a shirt that shows _way_ more cleavage than the cascade of purple fabric she's wearing.

She follows him down the stairs, out to the backyard. It's _giant,_ a field of green that fades to sand, and then to the water of the private beach he told her about the other night with a suggestive undertone to his voice that had her mind flying to the gutter.

Now, when her lip gets caught between her teeth, it's for a completely different reason. A reason that has her stopping in her tracks, and turning to watch as he walks away.

But then he's turning back towards her, his brows furrowed in both confusion and worry, and the distance between them has her heart pounding painfully against her ribs.

"You okay?" he asks.

This is stupid. _She's_ stupid for letting his history get the best of her, ruin a beautiful moment with him.

And yet her lips are parting around her response before she can stop herself.

"Yeah," she whispers. "But...I just can't help but wonder how many other women have gotten this tour."

His shoulders sag, and it almost looks like disappointment that flickers in his eyes. In himself, or in her, she doesn't know. But he's stepping towards her, closing the space between them, shrinking the gap until he can reach out and take her hand in his. Her palm kisses his, settling into the warm embrace of his fingers, so comforting, such a perfect fit.

The smile he offers her already has reassurance blooming within her, coursing through her veins.

"I can't deny that I brought other women here," he tells her, the sincerity, the apology in his voice making her nod, accept the reality of his past. "But, Kate, none of them were _you._ "

And the reality of _their_ present.

She smiles, because words seem inadequate, because there's nothing to say when he's looking at her like _that_ , like he loves her. Nothing to say when the only words that come to mind are the ones that she doesn't want to say under these circumstances, after such a bitter moment of doubt in him, in them and their relationship.

She'll say them. On this trip, she'll say them.

But right now, she tugs on his arm, drawing him closer, until she can lean up to dust her mouth against his, to promise him the words still unspoken with the touch of her lips. Her fingers tighten around his as his hand comes up to trail across the base of her spine, to draw her against him and deepen the kiss.

He's smiling when he pulls away, his eyes bright like he knows exactly what she was trying to tell him.

"So," he breathes, "want to see the pool?"

She grins, her teeth catching her lip only to release it when she pushes herself onto her toes, so her breath is warm against the side of his ear. " _Or_ you could show me the master bedroom, before your family shows up."

He swallows thickly, audibly, and pulls back with wide eyes and a grin. "I like the way you think," he says.

And then he's sweeping her off her feet, carrying her bridal style back into the house as her laughter rings through the air behind them.

She can't help but muse that he's swept her off her feet figuratively, too.

* * *

He loves having her in his home, in his life.

She's sitting outside, in one of the lounge chairs just outside the kitchen, where she situated herself when he told her to make herself comfortable while he rummaged through the kitchen making up a grocery list. But now, the grocery list complete, he's watching her through the windows, loving the way she's curled up on her side, a book spread on her thighs.

She looks so very at home, so very comfortable, and he finds himself stepping forward to draw the door open.

The sound alone has her looking up at him, eyes wide, a smile curling at her lips. "Are Martha and Alexis here?" she asks.

He smiles, at both the smile on her face and the way she cares about his family, and shakes his head in response. "Not yet," he answers, just as the click of the door opening echoes through the large halls of the the house.

Kate's eyes go wide at the sound, a her smile widening. She slips a bookmark between the pages, and sets the book down on the chair as she stands. He reaches for her hand, but instead of taking it, she slips her arm around his back, her head falling against his shoulder for a moment, until his arm bands around her shoulder.

He's not sure if it's for the comfort upon facing his family, or just for the contact. He doesn't really care, when she takes a step perfectly in time with his.

When they get to the door, Alexis is closing the door behind her, and his mother is draping her scarf over the two suitcases she brought for the weekend. At the sight, Kate muffles a chuckle against his shoulder, her hand slipping beneath the fabric of his shirt as he squeezes her arm.

"Hello Richard, Katherine," greets his mother. "Have the two of you settled in okay?"

Kate nods for them both, and despite how simple it is, it makes his heart swell. "We have, Martha," she answers.

Alexis smiles. "And I assume Dad has given you a tour of the whole house by now?"

Kate's cheeks turn beet red at that, and her nails dig into his skin. Probably at the memory of how the tour got momentarily interrupted, of how she got to see the master bedroom for the first time with her legs wrapped around his waist and her mind, and gaze, locked on something other than the decor.

His hand releases her shoulder, trailing down her back to pinch at her side, and she blinks, swallows back a stutter.

"Yeah," she breathes. "He showed me around the place. He bragged a _lot._ "

Alexis laughs. "Yeah, that sounds like the tour," she says. "Did you get to see the pool yet?"

He swallows back his comment, fights to school his grin when he remembers that _that_ is just about when the tour got cut short, when she had dragged him back into the house, waiting only a second before her lips were pressed against his, her hands _everywhere._

But she pinches him this time, as though sensing the chuckle that bubbles up in his chest, and shakes her head.

"Actually," she breathes, "I haven't."

"What?" asks Alexis. "That's my favorite part of the house. Well, that and the beach."

He smiles, and feels Kate do the same, her cheek still pressed against his shoulder. "Oh, yeah?" she breathes. "Well, I'd love to see it."

"Yeah?" breathes his daughter. "Well, give me a chance to unpack and I'll show you. We can go for a swim." And she offers a smile before reaching for her bag and running for the stairs.

And his mother smiles at them, at Kate. "Welcome, Katherine," she says.

Kate's eyes go wide, and she watches his mother walk away, staring at the stairs long after both redheads have disappeared.

He doesn't have to say it, he knows she knows. She wasn't just welcomed to the Hamptons. She was welcomed into his family.

When she doesn't run scared, or even ask about it, but rather lets herself sink into his arms, dusting a kiss to his shoulder as she tells him she should go get changed…he thinks she might be welcoming his family into her life, too.

And that means _everything_.

* * *

She loves spending time with his family, she realizes. She did before, too, but here, now, her relationship with Castle more solid, and welcomed into their vacation home, she loves it even more.

Because Martha kind of reminds her of her own mother, just more outspoken. In some ways, it makes her miss her mom more, makes her wonder what she'd say upon finding out that she's dating _Richard Castle._ In other way, it's great, drawing a smile to her face when Martha wishes them good night, making her feel welcome, overwhelmingly so, when she finds herself bonding with Castle's mother over glasses of red wine.

And Alexis, despite the apprehension that has lingered in her eyes since the momentary break up, is amazing all around. She's fun and sweet and smart, and beyond the anxiety that comes with talking to her boyfriend's daughter, is extremely easy to get along with.

Not to mention that the love in their family, so very sweet and warm and almost unfamiliar, seems to wrap around her, too, leaves her feeling blissful and comfortable and happy when wrapped in his arms, discussing books with his daughter while his mother nods along.

She loves it. She loves _him._

She might just be starting to love all of them, even though it's too soon and she shouldn't be attached, and she could lose it all.

It would usually send her running, but she finds that she can't seem to reassemble the walls that used to stand tall around her heart.

She should hate him for it. Instead, she sets him carry her to bed, lets him ravish her, worship her, and finds herself doing the same to him, her heart pounding in her chest with words unspoken.

Saturday passes too quickly, and she wakes up on Sunday morning later than she has in years, wrapped in a comforter and bathed in sunlight, lying in an empty bed.

She doesn't bother getting dressed, finds herself replacing her pajamas with her swimsuit and a cover-up before slipping outside, led by the Castle's loud voice and Alexis' laughter. Martha is lying in a lounge chair, a sunhat on her head, a magazine spread in her lap.

"Good morning, Katherine," she greets. "Sleep well?"

She nods. "I did, tha–"

She coughs, sputtering as she wipes the unexpected splash of water from her face, blinking against the drops that burn in her eyes until her vision refocuses. Onto Castle, using his daughter as a shield, failing in his attempts to hide his smile.

"Good morning?" he calls out.

Her eyes narrow, and she sheds the soaked fabric of her cover-up, draping it over the back of a lounge chair before stepping forward and swiping a water balloon off the pile nearby.

It takes Alexis all of two seconds to ditch her father, to leave him to defend himself, and he screams. She steps off the tile, and onto the grass, and takes off running after him.

Her aim is spot on, always has been, and as soon as he turns around to check the distance between them, the orange balloon hits him squarely in the face.

The laughter rings out from where Martha and Alexis are sitting watching. And she leans forwards to catch her breath around gasps of amusement, her gaze locked on him. He makes a show of wiping the water from his eyes, and throwing the broken balloon onto ground, even as he mutters a reminder to pick it up later.

And then he's running after her, his head start letting him catch up to her. His arms band around her waist, and he lifts her off the ground, his lips finding her neck as she tries to push him away.

" _Castle._ "

"Yes?" he breathes into her ear, before he sets her back on the ground, and his lips find her neck. "What do you want, Beckett?"

She hums, swatting at the hands still wrapped around her middle. "Your family is watching," she whispers. It sounds half-hearted, even to her own ears, especially when she sinks deeper into his embrace.

"So?" he says. "I still haven't gotten my kiss good morning."

She smiles, and finds herself turning to face him. His arms are still wrapped around her, warm despite the cold from the water balloon fight. He's gentle despite the spark in his eyes telling her that if they were alone, he would do much more than kiss her.

She doesn't care. She loves this, all of this, so much.

The gentle, sweet, _loving_ brush of his lips over hers is perfect.

From where she's sitting on the porch, though, Alexis lets out a loud, exaggerated groan. "You two are sickeningly sweet," she calls out the them, her nose crinkling in disgust despite the smile on her face.

She's pretty sure it's just to annoy his daughter, but can't complain when Castle tilts her chin back with his thumb and presses his lips harder against hers, letting his tongue sweep across the seam of her lips before he pulls away.

And yet he still reaches up to wipe strands of wet hair from her eyes, sweeping them behind her ear, and the bright blue of his eyes stays locked on hers, shining bright in the early morning light.

He looks at her like he's in love with her. She _knows_ she looks at him the same way.

And she should hate herself for it, should want to run from it, but instead, the hope that wells in her chest overwhelms her. Has her dreaming of three little words, of lazy mornings spent in his bed, of a ring that might adorn her finger.

It has her wondering if they might, one day, add to this little family she already appreciates so much.

And it's stupid. So very stupid when it's only been two months. But her heart stutters with it, with the question of whether or not he might be her one and done.

She should be running from it, but she can't.

Not when he's staring at her like he already knows that she's his.

* * *

By the time night falls, they're alone, still outside, lying in a lounge chair on the patio by the kitchen. Her arms are wrapped around his waist, her chin resting on his shoulder, and when she presses a kiss to his lips, she tastes like the strawberry flavor of her ice cream cone from earlier.

His mother had left them shortly after the sky started getting dark, drawing her sunglasses from her nose and wishing he, Kate and Alexis a goodnight and announcing that she'd steal a bottle of wine before heading off to her room.

Alexis had lingered until stars started dotting the sky, and for a second bowl of ice cream, before leaving with a smile, telling them that she had to study for her test on Wednesday. She had leaned down to give him a quick hug and to thank Kate for coming this weekend, catching him off guard and making his heart swell.

It had taken Kate all of five minutes to lean down and press her lips to his, sweeping her tongue across his, her hands roaming across his bare chest, her moan muffled by his kiss.

And now they're here, with her pressed against his side, her eyes locked on the sky above them, the flecks of gold bright and dancing in swirls of green.

"So, did you enjoy your time here?" he whispers, dusking a kiss to the top of her head.

She squeezes his middle, nodding her head against his shoulder. "Today was…fun," she answers. "It was different. I haven't done anything like this in years…not since my mom died. But it was really fun, Castle." She presses a kiss to his shoulder, turning to look at him instead of the stars lighting up at the sky. "Your family is…amazing. So, uh, thank you, for inviting me."

He smiles down at her, reaching up to sweep a stray strand of hair from her face. "Thank you, for coming," he says. "I'm really glad you had fun."

Her eyes shine up at him, and his hand drifts down the bare planes of her side, of her back, over the fabric of her swimsuit to settle where her bottoms are banded around her hip, and he leans down to press another kiss to her lips, drawing her tighter against him until he pulls away, feeling the warmth of her breath wash across her face.

"I wish we could stay longer," she whispers, her forehead falling to rest against his.

He sighs. "Yeah," he agrees. "We'll have to leave pretty early tomorrow to miss the afternoon traffic."

She hums, but it's sad, disappointed as her eyes fall closed, her hand curling into a fist against his shoulder. He squeezes her hip, drawing her gaze back open, and he leans over to dust a kiss to her cheekbone, another to her temple.

"You okay?" he breathes.

She smiles, her lips curling upwards against his chest. "Yeah, I just wish we could stay," she whispers. "I love it here, and I loved this weekend. I love you."

And she goes tense in his arms, her eyes snapping open as she pushes him away, her hands flattening over his chest. She sits up, but his arm stays banded around her waist, holding her close so she can't run from this, from him. He pushes himself up, too, reaching for her even as her gaze falls from his and her cheeks bloom pink.

She looks up at him, her green eyes hooded, dark with hesitance. "I didn't mean to just…blurt it out like that," she tells him.

"No, Kate, it's perfect. It's real. It's…extraordinary. _You're_ extraordinary." He reaches forward, curling his index finger under her chin to draw her gaze back to his. His other hand stays wrapped around her, holding her close as he leans forward to brush a kiss to her lips. "I love you, too."

She smiles at that, bright and happy and it has him leaning towards her again, his lips lingering this time as her hands fly up to curl in his hair. Her tense shoulders loosen, and she swings a leg over his lap, settling against him as his hands fall to bracket the small of her waist.

When she pulls back, the tip of her nose brushes against his, and her smile is shy, the slight upturn of the corner of her mouth. "Yeah?" she breathes.

"Yeah."

Her fingers curl tighter in his hair. "You don't think it's too soon?" she whispers.

He steals another kiss from her lips, pulls back with a shake of his head. "Never too soon," he says. "I should have volunteered you for that camping trip three years ago."

She chuckles, the puff of air warm as it washes across his face. "I would have killed you," she tells him.

"I don't know, the day I volunteered you it looked more like you wanted to _kiss_ me," he teases.

She does just that, again, her tongue slicking across the seam of his lips, sliding against his until she draws a groan from his chest and a moan from her own and her hips roll ever so slightly over his. Her breathing is heavy, coming in pants when she pulls away, leaning down so her forehead kisses his.

She hums. "You are much more useful this way," she agrees. "Although I still would have killed you back then."

"I don't think you would have," he teases.

She pulls back. "Oh, and why's that?" she asks.

He squeezes her waist, and brushes her nose with his in an eskimo kiss that has her melting against him. "Because you _love_ me," he whispers.

The words draw a smile to her face, and she lunges forward, her hands framing his jaw as her hips grind down again, desperation seeping into her actions, driving her, driving him as he clutches at her hips, letting his hands slip beneath the fabric of her swimsuit bottoms.

He's the one panting when she pulls away, as she gasps in a heaving breath.

"And I love you," he breathes. "So much, Kate."

Her cheeks turn a darker shade of pink. "I love you, too," she murmurs, and then her gaze locks on his, her eyes dark, her cheeks flushed, her lips quirking into a grin. "Now, take me to bed, Castle."

He just does that, standing and sweeping her into his arms, one banded around her back, the other under her knees. She muffles her laughter in his neck.

And on Tuesday morning, she doesn't bother denying the rumors that still circulate the school. Instead, she reaches over and laces her fingers through his as they stand side by side outside their classroom doors, confirming them to anyone who takes notice.

He loves her even more for it. Because he knows she loves him.

* * *

 **So, guys, there's only the epilogue left now, so I hope this chapter was satisfactory. And, as always, a huge thank you goes to Lindsey for beta'ing this for me.**


	23. Epilogue

_**Oxymoron**_

* * *

 _oxymoron:_ (noun) a figure of speech in which apparently contradictory terms appear in conjunction

* * *

 _ **June, one year later**_

* * *

She adjusts her high ponytail, feels it swing behind her head, and her hands fall to curl around the fabric of her blouse. She pushes the ivory fabric up to her elbows, and then leans down to tug at the hem of her skirt, drawing it down to make sure it's where it's supposed to be. And just before she makes her way into the hall, she runs her fingertips over the chain around her neck, fighting the urge to draw the ring up and cradle it in her palm.

Instead, her hands join behind her back as she presses herself against the wall between her classroom door and his, her gaze sliding to land on her fiance, who's staring back at her.

"Ready for the last class of the year?" he asks.

She nods, the words caught in her throat at the knowing glint in his eye, at the love that shines bright in the blue she loves so very much.

This is her last class of the year and in two days she's marrying Castle, and it has her tearing her gaze from his and turning towards the door in an attempt to keep herself from leaning over to press a kiss to his lips. It doesn't keep him from reaching for her hand the moment the bell rings and smudging a kiss to the high of her cheekbone.

She slips into her classroom and her students are already smiling at her, knowing glints in their eyes. She rolls her eyes, finding her spot at the front of the room, her palms flattening against her desk as she leans back.

Almost instantly, a hand shoots up into the air.

"Yes, Andrea?" she asks.

Andrea smiles, wide and feigning innocence. "Do we actually have to do work today?" she asks. "I mean, it's the last day of the year."

Two years ago, the answer was a _yes_ without room for argument, and her heart jumps at the reminder of how much she's changed. Because this year, she shrugs. "I don't know. It depends on whether or not you have any ideas on what else we can do for class today," she says. "Anyone?"

Andrea's smile only widens. "Well, you _could_ finally tell us about your wedding, since it is this weekend and all."

She huffs, even though she should have expected it. It's been a topic of conversation, and a recurring question since she showed up after Christmas vacation, still giddy with excitement, with a ring on her finger. The same ring that now sits in that exact spot, where it's rarely vacated since the day he proposed. Her one hand falls to twirl the ring on her finger as a smile spread across her face.

"Fine," she agrees. "But this isn't the whole story."

She reaches over her desk, and er hand curls around the back of her desk chair, and she rolls it around the desk and drops down to sit, crossing her legs in front of her, and flashing a smile at her students.

"So, Castle owns a house in the Hamptons, and that's where we'll be getting married," she says. "It will be a small wedding, with just our family and closest friends, overlooking the ocean, at sunset."

Her heart stutters, the memory of when they last went to the Hamptons, when he took her hand in his and they decided exactly where they would get married. He had taken her into his arms, and danced with her to the sound of the waves crashing against the shoreline.

"What about your dress?" asks a student, and she blinks back the memory, against the giddy butterflies flooding her stomach.

And now grief settles in her chest, and yet the smile stays on her face. "It was my mother's dress," she says. "Uh, it's a full skirt but not princess-y, with a high neckline and a lot of lace." Her cheeks burn pink, and her gaze falls for a second only for her to look back up with a shrug. "It's hard to describe, but I think it looks nice."

The student smiles, nodding her head.

And then another student, a girl sitting in the back of the room, pipes up. "How did you know?" she asks. "That Mr. Castle is the one?"

She shrugs again, on instinct, at the lack of answer that comes to mind, and her lips part around the first words she can think of. "I didn't." And then she shakes her head, waving her hand in the air. "Wait, no, I do _know_ , it just wasn't like, a moment where I realized it."

"Then what happened?" asks a student, and a guy in her class huffs because he obviously doesn't care.

It draws a laugh from her throat, and she shrugs again at the question. "We were together for…nine months when he proposed, and by then, I guess I just knew that my life is so much better with him in it than without him," she answers. "Eventually I just realized that he makes me _so_ happy, and that I didn't want to live my life without him anymore." She smiles, feels the dreamy memories blurring her vision. "So when he proposed, there was no answer but yes."

And she blinks, refocusing her vision and looking up at her students. Dreamy smiles are spread across most of the girls' faces, probably as they imagine their own love story. Most of the boys have their phones out, but she doesn't bother snapping at them.

It's the last day of school. It's not like they were going to learn anything important today, anyway.

Instead, her gaze snaps to one of the girl's in her class as another hand shoots up into the air, and with a nod of her head, she allows the student to ask her question.

"Is it true that you hated Mr. Castle before you guys started dating?"

She barks out a laugh, smothering it behind her palm, and finds herself nodding her head before she can think better of it.

It's the truth, after all. Up until he forced her to see the kind and compassionate side of him…she really didn't appreciate so much as sharing a wall with him.

Never did she imagine herself marrying him.

And yet here she is.

She bobs her head up and down once more, and her hand falls to land over the other. Without thought, she twists the diamond ring on her finger, and a smile spreads across her face.

"Yeah," she answers. "That would be true."

* * *

"She didn't _hate_ me," he says. "She just…didn't _like_ me, either."

The student who asked the question laughs. "Really, Mr. Castle?" he says. "Because I heard she hated you."

His brows furrow, and he's sure Kate would call him over-dramatic for the way he crosses his arms over his chest and leans back against the edge of the desk behind him. "Who told you _that_?" he asks.

The student shrugs. "Students from Miss Beckett's class last year," he answers.

"Mr. Ryan," pipes up another.

"Mr. Esposito."

"Alexis."

He feigns a gasp, pressing his hand against his chest. "Alexis is supposed to be on _my_ side," he says, and the students laugh again. He smiles at the sight, and clears his throat to get their attention. " _Anyway_ ," he continues, "wasn't the point of this to hear about how I proposed?"

Most of the students nod, a few groaning at the return to the original question, uninterested in his love life, in Kate's love life and how he got down on one knee and asked her to marry him.

He just laughs, though, unwilling to keep it a secret any longer when he already promised he'd share today. Unable to hold back the smile that spread across his face at the memory.

Because in just a few days, he's marrying the love of his life.

"So, Beckett and I had been dating for nine months when Christmas rolled around," he begins. "And, well, Christmastime isn't a happy time for her, for reasons that hers alone to share, but it's my favorite time of year. But I didn't want to propose just because it was my favorite time of the year. I wanted to make it special for her."

He sucks in a breath, remembering the painful quiver of her voice when she had told him about how the Christmas decorations were still up the day her mother was murdered. When she told him that packing up the decorations that year was like packing up her mother, and she hadn't decorated since.

That was one step in bringing her here, to the present, with him.

"I'd had the ring for a little while by Christmas, for a few months, actually. I bought it shortly after our six month anniversary," he continues. "And when I realized that I was ready to give it to her, and that I was pretty sure she might be ready to accept, I did debate giving the ring to her as a Christmas present, but, like I said, I didn't want the engagement to be tainted by her dislike of the holiday season."

He'd even wrapped the ring, hidden the smaller jewelry box in a larger one and an ocean of tissue paper. He had planned it all out only to rip the wrapping apart a few minutes later. He'd planned the proposal for himself, not for her. He had wanted it to be for her.

"So, we spent Christmas Eve together, and by then I was _sure_ I wanted to marry her, but I still had no plans to propose. We opened midnight gifts with my family, and sipped hot chocolate, and even though Beckett isn't all that fond of Christmas, I think she had fun," he says. "We had a _lot_ of fun."

That has his students groaning, and a chuckle bubbling up from his chest. If Kate was here, she would definitely swat at his chest and remind him that these are his _students_.

Even though it's not his fault that his students' minds go _there._

"What? We did. It was Christmas," he says, still laughing, and shrugging one shoulder. "Point is, she spent Christmas Eve with me and spent the night at my place. But when I woke up on Christmas morning, her side of the bed was empty. At first, I thought that the big family Christmas might have been too much for her, and that she needed a break, but almost as soon as I went to get up, she came back into the room."

Her smile had been so bright, so beautiful, one of her hands wrapped around a mug of coffee, the other hidden in the pocket of his pajama pants that she had borrowed.

"She sat down on the bed next to me, and pulled the ring box out of her pocket and sat it down in between us. And she told me to ask her." His smile widens. "Of course, I knew she was going to say yes, but I went through the whole speech I had planned out anyway, although she cut me off halfway through with her answer."

She had practically lunged at him, crying and thanking him, without telling him what she was thanking him for, and pressing kisses to his shoulder, to his neck, to any skin she could find. Emotional from Christmas, emotional from the promise, and he had just held her, buried his face in her hair and kissed her until she pulled away. And then, with shaking hands, he had slid the ring onto her finger, watching the diamond sparkle in the morning sun, watching the sparkle in her eyes.

"Obviously, she said yes, since we're getting married on Saturday," he finishes. "And that's the story of how your favorite teachers got engaged."

A few of the students scoff, but it takes him a second to realize that most aren't even looking at him. His gaze follows theirs, cutting to the door, where Kate is leaning against the frame.

He asks his class to excuse him for a second, and follows her into the hall. His hands find her hips and hers land on his shoulders. Her eyes are bright, betraying the mock frown gracing her lips.

"You spilling our secrets?" she asks.

He smiles. "You are, too. You're telling them about the wedding," he counters.

Her cheeks turn pink, her head dipping to hide her blush. "Whatever," she dismisses. "Just don't even _imply_ anything about our sex life, okay?"

"Okay," he agrees.

And then he's dipping his head to steal a kiss from her, squeezing her hips as he does. She pulls away, laughing at the gagging noises that come from both his classroom and hers, and at the one student who reminds them that PDA in the hallway is against the rules.

He kisses her again, for good measure.

Then she shoves his chest, laughing softly. "Go teach your class," she says, as though she isn't the one that silently beckoned him out of it.

"You, too," he says, pinching her side as she turns to walk away.

She turns back to face him, though, still smiling. "And remember," she says, " _nothing_ , not even an implication, about our sex life."

He nods, swallowing back the response telling her he would never do such a thing.

* * *

It's only after her class is empty, and she's slipped the last stray piece of paper into its place for next year, that he joins her in her classroom. His arms snake around her waist, his lips landing on her neck, and even though they're in full view of the students in the hallway, she sinks back against him, her hands landing over his.

"Can you believe another year's over?" he asks, his breath warm against her skin, his arms squeezing her middle.

She shakes her head against his chest.

"Did you ever think, two years ago, that you would be marrying me?" he adds, pressing another kiss the side of her neck.

It draws a laugh from her throat, and she shakes her head again. "Two years ago, I probably thought it was more likely I would be arrested for your murder than that I would be your fiancee," she tells him. "Although this is, admittedly, much better than that would have been."

"Because you love me?" His voice is at her ear this time, his tongue tracing the shell of it to punctuate his sentence and draw a shiver up her spine.

But she manages a shake of her head. "Because orange really isn't my color," she teases, leaning back to press her head against his.

He hums, amusement laced evident in the sound. "I think you would look beautiful," he tells her.

"Oh?" she breathes. "So, if I ended up in jail for whatever reason, you would still find me attractive?"

She means for it to be teasing, rhetorical. Means for it to draw a laugh from his throat and his fingers pinching at her sides as he leaves the question unanswered because they both already know the truth.

But he leans down, and presses his lips to her shoulder, soft and sweet as his hands drift across her sides, over the ladder of her ribs and down to her hips again. He lingers there, his mouth pressed to her skin, his hands holding her close, and nuzzles his nose against the side of her neck when he pulls away.

"Always," he whispers.

It sends her heart soaring, her pulse stuttering, and she squeezes his hands. "You're sappy today," she whispers.

He pulls back, ever so slightly, and his one hand escapes her grasp, coming up to cradle her jaw instead. His thumb traces her cheekbone as he angles her head so he can meet her gaze. Her teeth find her bottom lip, her heart racing at the look in his eyes, at the sweet, loving smile gracing his lips.

"I'm marrying the love of my life in _two days_ ," he whispers, as though she could possibly forget. "I'm allowed to be sappy."

Her heart melts, and she tilts her head just enough for her lips to catch his, to steal a kiss from his mouth, to swallow the sappy words threatening to escape her. Her fingers thread through his at her hip, her free hand coming up to frame his jaw. He pulls back, sucks in a quiet breath, and kisses her again, squeezing her hip, making her knees go weak.

And then there's a knock at the door.

She doesn't bother pushing him away, and he doesn't jump back. The school year is over, they don't have students anymore. And their co-workers have long since gotten used to Castle's—okay, and her—affectionate behavior. But when she turns to the door, she doesn't find a co-worker standing at the door.

"Hi, Jordan, Lucas," she manages, eyeing the grasp of the teens' hands.

Jordan's cheeks turn bright red. "I didn't mean to interrupt," she says, just like the first time she walked in on them.

"You weren't," promises Castle from behind her, and he takes a step back, putting some space between them even as his arm stays banded around her waist.

"Yeah, you weren't interrupting anything," she agrees.

Jordan nods. "Okay," she says, the word a whisper. "I just wanted to stop by and congratulate you guys." She smiles. "I'm really happy for you."

She feels a smile curl at her lips, and the memory of the day Jordan pushed her back into Castle's arms flashes into her mind, the quiet reminder that Castle made— _makes_ —her happy.

"Thank you," she breathes, before Castle can say a word. "For…everything."

And from the smile on Jordan's face, she knows the teen knows exactly what she's thanking her for.

Jordan nods. "You're welcome," she says. "I hope you guys have a great wedding, and a great summer."

"You guys have a wonderful summer, too," she tells Jordan, and Lucas, who remains silent, smiling at them.

Jordan nods once more, her pitch black bangs falling into her face, and then, with a tug on Lucas' hand, leaves the doorway.

Still smiling, she turns back to Castle, and pushes herself onto her toes once again, smudges a kiss to his cheek. "Remind me to tell you what she did later," she whispers to him.

"Who?" he asks. "Jordan?"

She nods, and he squeezes her hip, nodding his promise, and sealing it with a kiss to the top of her head.

* * *

He sits on one of the desks while she does a last minute check of the room, making sure everything is put away and in its place before they leave for the summer, and only stands when she finally turns to him, offering him a smile and a nod of assurance. He reaches down, and swipes her bag off the floor, the strap falling to rest in the crook of his elbow as he holds his other arm out for her.

Her smile is sweet as she reaches for him, looping her arm through his and letting her head fall to rest on his shoulder.

"You ready to go now?" he asks.

She nods. "Thanks for waiting."

He laughs. "Well, you won't let me drive your car, so I kind of had to," he teases, and she swats at his chest in response, her laughter bubbling up from her chest.

"Just take me home, Castle," she tells him, her cheek falling to rest on his shoulder only for her to pull away again as she takes the first step towards the classroom door.

He follows without argument, without another word, and lets her lead him through the empty halls, the buzz of excitement seeming to linger in the emptiness. She turns a corner, dragging him with her, and reaches forward to push the door to the stairwell open.

He presses a kiss to the top of her head as soon as they cross the threshold, like he always does, a reminder of the day she realized she wanted him, of the day he realized she wanted him. The day he realized that he might not be crazy for wanting her, and for thinking she might, one day, want him, too.

She presses her head against his shoulder, and then slips her arm from around his, reaching down to intertwine their fingers instead. She practically runs down the stairs, pulling her with him, and then he's pressed up against the wall, her bag falling from the crook of his elbow to land on the floor as her lips crash against his.

Her hands curl tight around his shoulders, her tongue finding his without hesitation, her chest, her hips pressed against his. He wraps his arms around her waist, crushing her against him.

She pulls back with a gasp. "Just one more…before we get married."

He leans down, and nips at her jaw, humming against her skin. "More than one," he mumbles.

She hums, threading her fingers through his hair and tilting his head back to press their lips together in another kiss. "More than one," she agrees.

He grips at her hips, pressing her harder against him, and then he's spinning them, crushing her against the wall as her leg comes up, the heel of her shoes digging into his leg as her hips cant into his.

He's the one that gasps when they part again, and his lips slant over the thundering of her pulse, his tongue darting out to taste her skin.

"You know what I've always wanted to do?" he asks, the words a whisper against her neck.

"What?" she breathes.

He grins, nipping at her collarbone. "Have sex with you right in this stairwell."

She moans, so quietly he feels it more than hears it, and then she's pushing him away. He barely has time to blink before she's adjusting her clothing and fixing her hair and letting her fingers drift across her swollen lips.

"That is so _not_ going to happen, Castle," she says. "I draw a line at places in the school with double doors with _windows._ "

He reaches for her, his hand curling around her hip once again. "Oh, come on," he says. "It would be _great._ "

She rolls her eyes at that, and reaches down to take his hand in hers. "Whatever. Not gonna happen, babe," she says. "Now, come on, Alexis is probably waiting for us. We're her ride, remember?"

"Could you not mention my daughter when I'm talking about having sex with you?" he groans, but he follows her willingly, only pausing to reach down for her bag.

She turns back to face him. "Technically, I think I mentioned your daughter while I was talking about _not_ having sex with you," she counters.

"Whatever," he says. "It _will_ happen, Mrs. Castle."

She shakes her head. "It will _not,_ Mr. Beckett."

And then she laughs, and he's not sure what's funny, or if it's just the joy bubbling up, but he doesn't care, he just laughs with her and watches the sway of her step and the way her ponytail swings behind her head. Her steps are quick, and he follows without thought until she's sliding into the driver's seat of her car.

He throws her bag into the backseat so it lands next to Alexis before situating himself, drawing his seat belt over his body as Kate does the same.

She's still laughing. And her smile still makes his heart soar.

"I don't even want to know," says Alexis.

It draws a laugh from his throat, his gaze still locked on Kate as she turns to key in the ignition, and then his eyes flit back, so he can see them both, his daughter and his fiancee, who's going to be his wife in _two days._

His family.

And when they pull away from the school, the distance between them and the year that just ended growing with every minute, it feels like the start of something new. The start of a new chapter in a story he never imagined he would love so much.

A new chapter.

He already knows he's going to love what's on the next pages.

* * *

 **And it's done. I don't know if I'm relieved or sad, but I hope you all enjoyed this final chapter/epilogue.**

 **Thank you _so_ much to everyone who favorited, followed, reviewed and/or read this story. I feel like this is kind of the story that put me on the map as a fic writer in the fandom, thanks to you guys, and it was a wonderful journey. You're the reason I stuck with this story for eight months, through writers block and scrapping complete chapters and not knowing what I wanted to happen next. You guys inspired me and made me smile, and that means so much to me.**

 **Finally, Lindsey, you know how much your beta'ing means to me. The latter part of this story is better off because of your input and eye for typos, so thank you so much.**

 **xx -Callie**


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